


Your Best American Boy

by great_turkey_calamity



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Catherine is the US president, Ellen is Queen of England, Emetophobia, Enemies to Lovers, Literally the book, M/M, NSFW, Nerurodivergent-coded Henry (look carefully), Not Beta Read, Prince Alex, Richards is still doing what he does best, Role Reversal AU, Smut, Southern Henry, TW: Talks of Food and Anxiety/Depression, TW: lockdown, TW: loss of loved ones, TW: mentions of racism, TW: sexual assault in the workplace and abuse of power, but role reversed, tw: panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27274693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: When his mother became President of the United States, Henry Fox was deemed the American equivalent of a young royal. Attractive, kind, intelligent— his image does wonders for the White House. There’s only one problem: Prince Alexander of Wales has beef with him. The tabloids get ahold of a photo involving a Henry/Alexander altercation, and U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.Heads of state, family, & other handlers devise a plan; a staged, Instagrammable friendship. Hatred runs deep, but attraction runs deeper. Where will Henry find the courage to be honest about his feelings, and how can he learn to let his true colors shine through without destroying his mother’s reelection campaign.The role reversal AU we all need and want.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 155
Kudos: 152





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Your standard role reversal AU. Henry is from Texas and Catherine is the president. Ellen is Queen of England, and Alex and June are royalty. All will be explained in further chapters lol.
> 
> Your southern dictionary:  
> Moon Pie— a southern snack cake comprising of marshmallow smushed between two circular graham crackers. Comes in chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, banana, and salted caramel  
> Skeeter— southern shorthand for mosquito 
> 
> Will try my best to update regularly and update tags as I go!!

Henry has a very specific evening routine that he follows that he follows down to the last minute.   
  


He takes a long, hot shower as soon as he’s dismissed from dinner, scrubbing away the day's inconveniences and pain. From there, he dresses, and brushes his hair and teeth. He lights a candle, makes a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen, puts on music or an episode of Bake Off for background noise, and does some work on whatever odd editing job he’s managed to snag online. After spending half the night working away, he usually takes some melatonin, turns everything off, and lays in silence until he falls asleep, replaying the day in his mind.

There are interruptions, of course, there are bound to be. 

This is just what’s worked for him ever since his mother became president. 

It had certainly been a shock for America— Catherine Fox, the President of the United States. A willowy, soft-spoken former senator from Waco, Texas, with silver-streaked golden bronze hair and bifocals. An actor for a husband, and three children just as quiet as she is.   
  


Nobody expected her to run against Rhett Montgomery, the ex-governor of Montana, in 2016, especially after his father had passed away. It was like a side of her nobody knew about had been _unleashed_ , a silver tongue dealing out lashes of quick wit and indisputable fact behind a soft, almost shy smile. His mother was likable and ran with kindness and honesty, whereas Senator Montgomery had taken an approach that had relied on fear-mongering more than anything else.

Votes had come close, too close. His mother had been a nervous wreck, pacing back and forth. Bea had been squeezing his hand so tightly he’d been worried that it was going to fall off. His Diazepam definitely hadn’t been working. Philip, who had never been one for politics, had his eyes glued on the television, whilst Martha, the daughter of Vice President and former Nebraskan governor Leland Lovett, and Philip’s now wife, monitored polls online. Even his grandmother, a staunch Republican, had been a fidgeting fiend after a few stiff drinks. 

He remembers crying when she won, bounding up to his mother and wrapping his arms around her, holding her as fiercely as possible while she combed her shaking fingers through his hair.

Four years later, here they are in the White House. He sleeps in Caroline Kennedy’s nursery, in Nancy Reagan’s office. He’s left the room as a clean slate of sorts; creamed-colored walls and white bedding, with a couple of quilts and knitted afghans sitting on an ottoman. All soft, yellow lighting and dark, rustic wooden furniture. An Victorian writing desk sitting next to a shelf of records with the player placed on top. A world map, Oscar Wilde and Allen Ginsberg quotes on tarps, and pressed, dried flowers in shadow boxes cover his walls.   
  


It’s been a good run, and his mother is already prepping for her second term. They’ve got over a year to ready themselves, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially with Jeffery Richards looking more and more like the opposing candidate everyday. 

A knock at the door stirs him from his thoughts. He spits out what remains of his toothpaste, rinses his toothbrush, and goes to answer it. 

It’s Bea, brandishing a steaming mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Her hair is in two braids, and she looks like a ray of sunshine in her pajamas, a sweet smile on her face. He hears telltale jingling, and feels something brush against his leg; both David and Mr. Wobbles have decided to accompany her on this visit.

“What brings y’all to my neck of the woods?” He asks, stepping aside to let her inside, shutting the door behind her.

“I dunno,” She replies, setting the mug down on his bedside table, petting her bratty, obese little cat when he plops down in her lap. “It’s been a while since we’ve checked in and caught up.”

“It has.” He notes, coming and sitting down next to her, David at his side, pressing against his leg in an attempt to calm any singed nerves or jitters he may have.   
  


“Tea’s for you,” She tells him. “And this.” She continues, pulling a wrapped snack cake out of her pocket.

“Where’d you get Moon Pies from?” He asks, chuckling as he unwraps it and takes a bite. The taste of banana, graham cracker, and marshmallow flood his mouth; it would be ten times better if it had been microwaved, but he’s certainly not complaining.

“Ordered a few boxes online.” She says with a smile, opening her own.

“I can’t believe you actually like the vanilla ones, Bea. That’s nasty.” He grimaces, taking a sip of his tea. It’s a touch too sugary, but he can taste the love that she put into it. 

“Are you really gonna shame me, after I brought you tea and a snack?” She asks, eyebrow arched elegantly.

He giggles. “Maybe.”

“That’s the last damn time I do that, then.” She retorts playfully, laughing a bit herself. 

They snack and talk, their conversation drifting from subject to subject.

“What did Shaan help you pick out?” Beatrice eventually asks, tossing her wrapper into the trash bin by his desk.

“For what?” He asks, continuing to nurse his cup of Earl Grey. 

“Haha, very funny,” She remarks dryly, nudging him in the ribs. “Seriously though, do you have pictures of the suit you picked?”

“Bea, I’m being serious.” He replies, pulse quickening as his eyes widen. Good lord, what’s he forgotten now?

“For the wedding.” She says, slowly, as if he’s a very small child.

He bites the insides of his lips. He’s clearly missing the big picture here.

“Henry, are you kidding me right now?” She asks, not angry, more likely to break out into laughter than anything else.

“I promise you, I’m not.” He swears up and down.

She pulls up an article on her phone, showing it to him.

“Less than one week until the wedding day of Queen Ellen and philanthropist Leo Alden— sweet _Jesus_.” He gasps, shoving the phone back in her direction.

“We leave tomorrow, how on earth did you forget?”

“I _work_ , Bea!” He exclaims, obviously not finding the humor that she is in this scenario. “So, excuse _me_ if it just so happened to slip my mind!”

“Pip, Martha, and I all work, too.” She reminds him. “And we _all_ remembered.”

“Ugh,” Henry groans, burying his face in his hands. “That means I’ll have to deal with him, won’t I?”

“I don’t see what your beef is with Alexander,” She cackles, clamping a hand over her mouth. “He’s the prince of a foreign country, you would think that there wouldn’t be any problems between the both of you.”

“There’s no _problem_ on my end— he just, he glares at me when I enter any room he’s already in. Like I’ve threatened his fragile manhood, or something.” He explains, fingers drifting through David’s fur as he sleeps. 

“Maybe he’s deeply, uncontrollably attracted to you, and doesn’t know how to process it.”  
  


He scoffs, looking away. That’s a bit too much for him. Bea states with a devilish smile.

“That is an absolutely haunting mental image,” He announces, chin tilted up to the sky. “I think I’ll have to bleach my brain, now.”  
  


“Your lobster-red face suggests otherwise,” She points out. “He’s going stag to the wedding, maybe he’ll ask you to dance.” She proposes, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

“ _Please_ , be quiet.” He begs, pushing his hair away from his face. “What are you wearing?” He questions, desperate to change the subject.

“I could ask you the same same question.”

“You already did,” He reminds her. “And we’ll just have to wait and see. I know I’ve already confirmed it with Shaan, that’s for sure.”

“I’m having trouble making a definite decision.” She explains, going through her camera roll. “I like this one,” She explains, showing him a mauve, wrap around dress with long sleeves. It’s conservative— it’s safe. “But I also really like this,” She continues, showing him a pleated option. It’s a shocking emerald color, with a high neck and puffy sleeves that cinch at the wrists, the skirt stopping right at her knees.

“Go with the second one.” He advises.

“You’re sure?” She asks him.

“Gotta give the tabloids and fashion bloggers somethin’ to talk about.” He chuckles. “And you’ve always looked good in green.”

“I guess so.” She says in return, jolting when an alarm on his phone goes off. “What’s that for?” 

“Supposed to be gettin’ some work done on that thriller novel.” He explains.  
  


“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She decides, pecking his cheek. “Love you, bubba.”

“Love you too, Bea.” He replies, cracking open his laptop as she makes her way to the door with Mr. Wobbles in tow. 

“Hey,” She calls from the doorway.

“Yes, ma’am?” Henry replies, lifting his head up to make eye contact with her.

“Get some sleep tonight, or I’ll whoop you on the plane before Philip gets the chance.” She threatens playfully. “Got it?”

He smiles, signing into his main profile.

“Got it.”

London is a beautiful, crowded, cacophonous mess. Ellen and Leo’s faces can be seen on just about everything, from paintings to commemorative dish-ware. The city is littered with people in their best clothes, Union Jack present on lapel pins and tiny flags. There’s a sea of people surrounding Buckingham Palace; Henry doesn’t even think that this many people showed up to his mother’s rallies. 

Philip gives them a speech on the way, helping Beatrice and Martha pin their fascinators into their hair, Catherine being several steps in front of them.

“Y’all are to be on your best behavior,” He announces, securing the final bobby-pin in Bea’s bun before grabbing ahold of Martha’s hand. “No, slouching, no cussin’, no falling asleep. And _you_ ,” He says, turning back and gesturing to Pez— Henry’s good friend and Bea’s plus one for this high society function. “Dial it down, and you know good and well what I mean by that.”

“Worry about yourself, child.” He replies, Yat accent wrapping around his words like a blanket, voice soothing as warm milk and honey. Henry’s been to New Orleans only a handful of times, but Pez carries the spirit of the city wherever he goes. “Stay outta my business.”

Philip glares at him before moving on. “Henry, Beatrice, hold the accent back. Last thing we wanna do is sound uncultured.”

“Sure thing, Skeeter.” Henry snorts, and Bea bursts into laughter, making Philip whip around, face already splotchy and red.

“I’ll whoop your ass from here all the way back to DC if you don’t knock it off.”

“He’s only playing, Philip.” Martha soothes, squeezing his hand.

“You remember when Coach Calhoun started callin’ you that at football practice when you told ‘em you wanted to go to law school?” Bea asks, cackling while Pez silently shakes with laughter. “ _Lordy_ , especially when you said you were interested in corporate law. He called you that for the longest time, even after you graduated.” She sighs. 

“Coach Calhoun,” Philip starts, sounding very serious and very agitated. “Is nothin’ more than a yokel from Memphis that stumbled up to Texas with nothin’ but God holdin’ him up. He’s a nut job, and to say that all lawyers do is lie and suck the life and money out of people is Republican idiocy at its finest.” He grumbles.

“Coach Calhoun might’ve been a Republican, and stupid as a stick, but I think he was right.” Henry speaks up. “Corporate lawyers ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of skeeters.”

Philip glares daggers at him, and he smiles back, although his heart is pounding.

They all round the corner, and plaster on saccharine smiles for the paparazzi awaiting them.

The ceremony drones on for quite a bit, but Henry loves every last second of it. Queen Ellen and Leo look happy— nervous, but happy— to be here, surrounded by people from all walks of life. Call him dramatic, call him a hopeless romantic, but Henry thinks that a wedding is one of the most beautiful events that a person can witness, or host as a celebration, in their life. 

He’s seated between Beatrice and Pez in the Buckingham Palace ballroom for the reception banquet, and the anxiety is finally starting to settle in, as he realizes he’s going to have to start making conversation. That’s always been the hard part of being in the public eye— keeping his anxiety under control.

“Did you take your medicine?” Philip asks in a low murmur over Pez’s shoulder.

“Yessir.” He replies, fidgeting with the tablecloth as his breathing and pulse race. 

Pez passes him a flute of champagne, and though he knows he ought not drink, he supposes that one beverage won’t hurt too much.

“Y’all know the difference between a Viscount and a Marquess?” Bea asks between bites of cucumber sandwich and sips of water. “I’ve had both come up to me, and I don’t really understand the difference.”

“Viscounts rank higher, I think.” Martha pipes up, her and Philip’s napkins now resembling rabbits. 

“I think it might be the other way around.” Pez counters, on his third drink of the night, arm slung around Henry’s shoulders.

“What did I tell you about dialing it down?” Philip asks.

“Maybe you’re the one that needs the Diazepam.” Pez scoffs.

Henry opens his mouth to say something, when a silly-looking royal attendant with glassy eyes and a ruddy face approaches their table.

“Mister Fox,” The attendant says, turning to Henry. “Her Royal Highness Princess Catalina wonders if you would do her the honor of accompanying her in a dance.”

Panicked and floundering, Henry surveys the table. 

Everyone else is mirroring his expression.

“He’d _love_ to,” Pez slurs, accent laid on rather thick as he knocks back the last bit of champagne swimming at the bottom of his glass. “Been hoping she’d ask all night.”

He sends a dirty glare Pez’s way before exiting his chair, letting the attendant escort him over to Princess Catalina. 

She’s gorgeous, a bright face framed by loose brown curls, stunning warm skin accompanied by a pale pink evening gown.

He suspects most men must find her worthy to swoon over, and that he might as well, if he were attracted to the fairer sex.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Your Highness.” He apologizes, heat creeping up his neck. “I’m afraid I’m not too good a dancer.”

“I‘ve never been one for dancing myself, really.” She admits, accepting his hand when it’s extended. “And please, call me June.” She implores, subtly leading him in a much-too-graceful waltz. “So,” She starts, peering up at him. “Have you been enjoying your time here in the UK?”

“I have, thank you.” He replies, still a bit nervous. “London’s absolutely beautiful.” He comments. “A little too cold for my liking, but beautiful nonetheless.”

She laughs, her dress swishing as they complete the steps in tandem. 

“I hear that quite a lot from visitors. It’s cold, and it’s dreary, but it’s home.”

They drift in and out of bouts of small talk until the waltz is over.

“One more question?” He asks.

June nods, smiling. “Of course.”

“Of all these men, why me? Surely I didn’t stand out to you. There are quite a few men here that I’d swoon over myself.” He admits, and it makes her laugh, tipping her head back in glorious, musical giggles.

“Do you want the truth?” She asks. “It comes in two parts.”  
  


Henry raises a brow, curious. “If you would be so kind as to tell me, I would very much appreciate it.”

“Okay,” She breathes, giggling. “Okay. Firstly, I’ve noticed how my younger brother acts when he sees you, and I think it is quite possibly the most hilarious thing in the entire world.” She admits. “Look behind you.” She tells him, and he obeys, immediately regretting it when he sees a brooding prince with luscious curls making love to his glass of white wine, dark, intense eyes glaring daggers at him.

“He looks like he’s gonna kill me.” Henry mumbles, tearing his gaze away as June continues to laugh. 

“I promise, Henry, he’s all bark and no bite.” She tells him, patting his shoulder. “Secondly, I’ve been dying to know who your friend is in the lovely tartan suit. He’s rather fit.” She says.

He peers over his shoulder, seeing Pez and Bea dancing and laughing together.

“Well, lucky for you, Percy’s newly single.” He tells her, grinning. “He comes from this old money family in New Orleans, runs a few nonprofit shelters. He donates to a lot of indigenous people’s charities.” Henry explains, really selling her on his friend. “He can be a little wild at times, always the life of the party. I can give you his number, if you want?” He offers.

“That would be lovely.” June replies, nodding.

Henry pulls a pen out of his pocket, finds an unused napkin, scrawling Pez’s number on it and handing it to June. “My lady,” He jokes, falling into a mock bow.

She snorts. “You’re really something, Henry Fox.” 

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” He replies, rising as she takes the napkin out of his hand.

“As you should,” She replies, pecking his cheek and tucking the napkin into a pocket Henry hadn’t seen. “I should probably be on my way now, so many noblemen dying to get a few words in.” She says with a roll of the eyes.

Henry grimaces. “Have fun with that.”

“We’ll see. See you around, Henry.”

“Goodbye, June.” He replies, watching her glide across the ballroom with little to no effort at all.

He pins himself against a wall, shutting his eyes and letting out a deep exhale, exhausted from such a high-stress social interaction.

A hand makes itself known on his shoulder, and he jolts, eyes flashing open.

There stands Prince Alexander, his wine glass refilled, pearly white smile not quite meeting his eyes. His suit jacket is covered in a comical amount of buttons, the soft gold of his tie shining in unison with his skin under the warm light emanating from the various chandeliers and candles in the room.

“Your Highness,” He sighs, already knowing where this is going.

“Henry Fox,” Alexander replies, his unique accent curling over and striking through every word, a beautiful mix of Received Pronunciation and Chicano, melodious and pleasing to the ear. Tabloids say it sounds unintelligent, and that it’s hard to understand. Henry begs to differ. “It’s been entirely too long.”

“We saw each other six months ago at an international public health summit in Austria,” Henry reminds him, tense under his touch. “So not that long.”

“You’ll have to excuse my poor memory, I’ve had a few too many drinks this evening.” Alexander chuckles.

“Of course,” He replies, tone flat. “Is there any specific reason as to why you’ve come to see me?”

Alexander chuckles, his slender, elegant fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Oh, I just think it’s funny,” He murmurs, taking another sip of his beverage. “That you’re acting as if you’re above all of this.”

Henry’s heart stops as he tries to comprehend where this conversation is going. 

“I’m not exactly sure what you mean by that.” He admits.

“What I’m attempting to convey is,” The prince pauses, chuckling once again. “You’re strutting around like some prized swan or peacock, getting the paps to chase you, then slouching and sulking in a back corner by the food, as if you hate the attention.” 

“I—“ Henry starts, quickly cut off.

“I wasn’t finished, nor did I give you permission to speak.”

_Oh._

“As I was saying, you clearly don’t hate the attention. You were dancing with my sister, after all. “You act like you’re better than everyone and everything. Doesn’t it get exhausting, farm boy?” Alexander asks, and it makes Henry’s blood curdle.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” He replies, brushing off the comments, not willing to give into meaningless jabs.

“ _Ha!_ ”

“Maybe you should switch to water?” He offers, jaw set, not even hiding his annoyance anymore.

“Should I, now?” Alexander questions, feigning innocence. Henry can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Perhaps you’re becoming a bit _offended_ , Mister Fox? I truly am sorry— you see, I’m just not as entirely obsessed with you as everyone else is, and I’m afraid that it’s getting beneath your skin.”

“I think you _are_ , actually.” Henry blurts in response, turning to him.

He can’t help but smirk as Alexander’s eyes grow wide and his mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’ shape. 

“Only a thought in my little _farm boy_ head,” He spits. “Have I not treated you with kindness, dignity, and respect the entire time that my mother has been in office? Yet here you are, like some vile plague, seeking me out once again.” He observes, temper flaring. “Just an observation.”

He watches the prince’s brows furrow, his teeth gritting.  
  


“Well, I _never_ —“

“Have a lovely evening, Your Highness, and give your mother my personal congratulations and well wishes.” Henry says, tone bitter as he turns to walk off.

Alexander yanks him back by his shoulder, and he wheels around, having half the mind to shove him back.

Before he can even comprehend it, Prince Alexander is tripping over his own two feet, and stumbles back into a table.

The table holding a $75,000 wedding take and a champagne fountain up.

Henry goes off-balance himself as Alexander grabs ahold of his arm, and they go crashing into the cake stand.

Henry watches in horror as the cake teeters, leans, shutters and ultimately tips over, crashing on the floor in a horrendously expensive mess of white buttercream, an absolutely unstoppable avalanche of sugar and cake.

The silence of the ballroom softens the blow as they both plummet, Prince Alexander on top of him as he thuds against the carpet. His hand is still wrapped around Henry’s wrist, white wine has been dumped over both of them, and the fresh cut on his face is stinging, starting to bleed.

Philip is going to something so terrible to him, there won’t be anything left of his remains for the insects to claim when he’s six feet under.

“ _Sweet baby Jesus, we’re fucked_.” He whispers.

“ _Quite,_ ” Alexander murmurs in response, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

He reckons it’s the first time the prince has agreed with him on just about anything, as he’s blinded by the flash of a camera.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse closet scene woop woop
> 
> Also TW for lockdown drill pls be careful

Philip’s verbal abuse on the flight home was absolutely relentless.   
  


He has a habit of getting loud when he’s been upset, but this cake fiasco had taken it to a whole new level. He’d screamed, and screamed, and screamed, until Henry was teary-eyed and croaking soft apologies. Bea had gotten involved. Martha, too. His mother’s favorite secret service agent, a hulking teddy bear of a man called Cash, intervened as well, telling him to get quiet, and to stay that way.

Henry can’t remember the last time he saw his brother so pissed off. It would probably have to be the time Henry’s chickens bolted out of the coop and chased him around the yard, scratching and pecking at him. They’d clawed up his arms and hands quite nicely. He’d threatened to cook Henry’s favorite, a fat little hen, and he had cried and cried and begged him not to. Philip had gotten a good laugh out of it. Their father had not; Pip was cobwebbing and cleaning out the drains in their stables for weeks.

They were younger then, and now it seems funny that they would ever get in a fight over a bird.

He’s ripped from his mental haze when Shaan throws a pile of magazines down in front of him.

“Picked all of these up on my way here,” Shaan tells him, New Jersey accent seeping through and saturating every word that leaves his lips. “Go ahead, give ‘em a look.”

Henry skims over titles of several articles.

**THE $75,000 SLIP UP**

_Battle Royal: Prince Alexander and FSOTUS Resort to Violence at Royal Wedding_

_**Cakegate:** Henry Fox Causes Tension Overseas After Royal Fiasco_

His face flushes with warmth and redness as he sees pictures of Prince Alexander clutching at his suit jacket, the two of them paralyzed with fear and covered in white icing and cake. It’s enough to make him run back to the farm and become a recluse for the rest of his days.

He’s never really been afraid of Shaan— he supposes that the right word is intimidated. Shaan is his mother’s deputy chief of staff and her right-hand man; Henry’s known him since he was five years old. The man is kind, but serious. Henry has never seen him without his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, without his suit being perfectly ironed and tailored, and Henry has most certainly never seen him on an off day, if such a thing even exists in the life of Shaan Srivastava.

He is, however, afraid of his mother. Not in the typical sense; Catherine has a tendency to coddle him. He knows that this whole ordeal wasn’t his fault, but he’s not exactly blameless either, is he?

“Sources inside the royal reception report seeing the young men arguing mere minutes before the _cake-tastrophe_ ,” Catherine reads, brows raised and knitted together as she reads from today’s edition of The Sun. How did she get her hands on a fresh release from a British tabloid? Henry doesn’t even want to know. “One can’t help but wonder,” She reads on, “if the bitterness between the two powerful sons, rumored to date back to the Rio Olympics in the summer of 2016, might have contributed to what many would call an icy and distant relationship between the monarchy and President Catherine Fox’s administration in recent years.”

She sets the tabloid down, peering at Henry over her glasses.

He clears his throat, sweating under his collar. “Mama, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“I know you are, hon, and you’re not in trouble with me,” Catherine clarifies. “Let’s get that out of the way first and foremost.”

Weight leaves Henry’s shoulders and chest, and he lets out a breath of relief. 

“Just sayin’ sorry isn’t gonna cut it this time, though.” She tells him, and terror shoots up his spine. “People are angry, kiddo. We should feel extremely lucky that Queen Ellen understood the situation; we were on a call together. I believe she said something about her son being ‘rather bratty and obstinate’.” She recalls, taking a sip from her mug of steaming, black coffee. 

“Well, what are we gonna do to resolve this?” He asks, scooting forward in his chair as his mother produces a file folder, sliding it across the table. 

“This is what we’re gonna do. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to put this together, but it seems to cover as many bases as possible.”

The folder is filled with official documents annotated with brightly-colored sticky note tabs, the first one saying _Agreement of Terms_.

  
“You can’t be serious,” Henry starts, already knowing where this is headed, and not liking it in the slightest.

“You and Alexander are going be spending a lot of time together in the foreseeable future. You’re leaving Saturday and spending all of Sunday in England.”

Henry groans, and Catherine promptly ignores him.

“I’m running late for one out of the many, many meetings I have today, so Shaan can brief you on the rest.” She says, rising up from the table. She stops, wraps her arms around Henry squeezing him tight as she plants a kiss atop his head. “I know this isn’t ideal, but we’re gonna get through this. Okay?”

He sighs, nodding. “Okay.”

“That’s my boy,” She muses, giving him another peck before pulling away. “You know where I am if you need me. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And with that, Catherine is gone, leaving him alone with Shaan in the West Wing briefing room.

  
“I was up all night long,” Shaan starts, assuming Catherine’s seat at the opposite end of the table. “Speaking with fussy royal handlers, a slew of vitriolic assholes from PR, and the prince’s royal equerry to get this settled.” He explains, sounding uncharacteristically agitated. “I have had a cup of tea, a granola bar, and four caffeine pills to eat today.”

“I am so sorry, Shaan.” Henry apologizes, resisting the urge to slouch down in his seat and hide.  
  


“It’s alright. Things happen.” He sighs. “Anyways, we finally got this together. Think you can handle it without messing it up?”

He nods, and Shaan continues. 

“We’ll start off by releasing a joint statement, stating that what happened at the reception was an extremely unfortunate accident—“

“As is the truth.”

“— and that you and Alexander are good friends that keep in touch, despite not seeing each other often.”

Henry’s jaw drops, and he is quick to correct it, clamping his mouth shut.

“Both sides need to come out of this looking good; your mother is up for re-election next year, and we can’t risk letting this go unresolved.”

“So, you want to play it off like _homoerotic roughhousing?_ ” Henry asks, scoffing when Shaan smiles and shrugs. 

“You said it, not me.” Shaan says, grabbing a specific paper from the portfolio and sliding it over. “Make it convincing, and I want this memorized. Last thing we need is the boy with the world’s worst poker face getting caught in a lie.”

It’s titled: _HRH Prince Alexander Fact Sheet_.

Good grief.

“I’m assuming he’s received one for me?” He asks aloud, rubbing at his temples.

“He did, and I really tried to make you look good, just so you know.” Shaan admits, growing softer as the conversation dwindles by. He slides another page across. “This should detail the requirements for the visit that we’ve agreed on.

It’s quite hefty for a day trip, Henry decides. Two social media posts waxing poetic about England, an on-air interview, and two joint appearances with photographers present, one private and one public.

He sets the list down, looking up at Shaan.

“There’s absolutely no way out of this, is there?” He asks, double-checking, making sure there’s no loophole they’re all missing out on.

“I wish.” Shaan says, adjusting his glasses.

After much consideration, Henry sighs.

“I’ll do it. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

Shaan laughs, sounding just a bit unhinged due to his unwavering exhaustion.

“After that mess, I’m kind of glad that you won’t.”

He’s reciting lines from the HRH Prince Alexander Fact Sheet with his eyes closed when Pez comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

“I can feel you getting a migraine,” He whispers, and Henry hums, letting Pez comb his fingers through his hair. “You should take a break, Hen.”

“I can’t.” He grunts, opening his eyes. “I’ve gotta get it memorized.”

“‘S not doin’ you any good just starin’ at the page for hours on end.” Bea says, an episode of _Bake Off_ playing on his television. 

“Thank you, Beatrice, for such an astute observation. What on earth would I do without you?” He asks, sarcastic and tired.

“Don’t get snippy with me, son.” She warns, quickly dropping the stern facade, patting his mattress. “C’mere, we’ll help you.”

He lets Pez get seated first, then drapes himself across his lap, soothing hands finding his hair once again. 

“Let’s start easy,” Bea proposes, scanning the fact sheet. “Family, go.”

“His mother is Queen Ellen, The Queen Mother’s only child. Obtained a doctorate in international relations. His father is Oscar Diaz, a first-generation immigrant from Mexico to the United States— specifically California. Works as an immigration lawyer; they divorced when he was twelve. His sister is Princess Catalina of Wales, and she is currently obtaining her master’s degree in English language and communication.”

“Very good,” She praises, and he certainly feels a bit better; maybe staring at the paper for hours has done him some good after all. “Best friend’s name, age, and occupation?”

“Nora Holleran, age twenty-two. A Greek actress known for her charity work with women and children in need. Can usually be found in dramas. Was in the running for best actress at the Academy Awards last year for the period drama _Innocence In Darkness._ ”

“I saw that movie a while back,” Pez admits. “She’s good.”

“Favorite book?” Bea asks.

“I’m going to be honest,” Henry says, sighing. “I’ve got no idea.”

“ _Great Expectations_.”

Henry groans. “He has no taste, y’all! None!”

“C’mon, now.” Pez chides, massaging Henry’s scalp. “Find something positive in it.”

Henry groans again. “It’s pretentious, but the running theme is that love is more important than one’s status, and money and power means nothing when you’re doing what you deem to be right. Maybe he relates to that, but I doubt it.”

“There we are.” He replies, warm fingers patting Henry’s cheek.

“What do you think they put on mine?” Henry asks absentmindedly.

“Hobbies: trying new skincare routines on a whim, tending to Jackie O’s garden with his mother, and crying whilst listening to Queen and Elton John.” Bea teases, and Pez cackles.

“They wouldn’t be wrong about that,” He relents, sighing. “I really hope this goes well, guys.”  
  


“It will, Hen.” Pez assures him, curling blond locks of hair around his fingers. “Keep your faith high.”

Henry doesn’t know what to expect of Alexander’s handler, but it certainly isn’t who’s greeting him on the tarmac.

A thirty-something year old woman, with a steely, spiky exterior and dark skin, her frame athletic and rigid all at once. She’s wearing a pantsuit, a Union Jack on her lapel, coils in a tight bun atop her head, clutching a cup of coffee in her hand and looking very, very unamused.

Okay, then.

“Agent McCarthy,” She greets, voice low and clear as she shakes Cash’s hand. “Your flight was easy, I hope.”

“Easy as the third overseas flight in a week can be.” Cash replies, and she actually cracks a smile at that.

“Wonderful, Land Rover’s for you and the rest of your team for the duration of your stay.”

Cash releases her hand, and she turns her attention to Henry.

“Mister Fox, my name is Zahra Bankston, and I am Prince Alexander’s equerry. It’s a pleasure to have you back in London.” She greets him, though her tone indicates she would much rather have him across the pond.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bankston,” He starts, shaking her hand as attendants carry his luggage in the direction of a sleek Aston Martin. He can’t help but notice how firm her grip is. “I’d just like to apologize for all of this— I know neither of us imagined our weekends turning out like this.” He chuckles nervously.

She offers a tight smile. “Nothing I hadn’t been forced to imagine before, sir.” She sighs, pulling a small tablet from her jacket and performing a perfect turn— in heels— towards the waiting vehicle.  
  


Henry is in awe of the raw power she holds, and has to jog to catch up with her, hunkering down in the back seat as she checks the mirrors.

“You will be staying in the Kensington Palace guest quarters. Tomorrow you’ll do a _This Morning_ interview at nine— we’ve arranged for a phone call at the studio. From there, it’s children with cancer for the rest of the day, then back to the colonies you go.” She tells him, running over the schedule. “I’ve been advised that talk of cancer can be triggering for you at times. Given this warning, will there be any issues with tomorrow’s charity appearance?” She asks.

“No ma’am, I’ll be fine.” He replies, a bit shocked.

“Lovely, in just a few moments, you’ll come with me to chauffeur Prince Alexander from the stables. Press will be there, so do try to look happy to be here.”

“Wasn’t aware that was the sort of thing that needs chauffeuring.” Henry remarks smartly.

“Standard protocol, is all. Maintaining the royal image and such.” Zahra replies. “If you’ll look in the seat pocket in front of you, there are a few papers for you to sign. Your lawyers have already approved them.” She explains, passing back a black pen as he grabs the packet.

**NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT** , the first page reads, followed by fifteen more pages of text. It’s hefty, and excessive, very heavy on privacy. He’s no stranger to non disclosure agreements, however, and signs his name where it’s needed, placing the packet back in the pocket and giving Zahra her pen back.

“I don’t envy your job, Ms. Bankston.” Henry announces.

“Believe me, Mister Fox, when I say that nobody in their right mind would.” She replies, knocking back her cup of coffee with an odd amount of elegance and grace.

Henry feels underdressed in his khakis and button down as his elbows rest on lacquered fence boards; he’s so out of his element right now, it’s not even funny. He hopes Alexander will look just as awkward and out of place as he feels, sweaty and breathing heavy after a rough polo practice.

He doesn’t look awkward, not in the slightest, as he comes galloping up on the back of a white Argentinian polo pony. Dying sunlight makes the gold tones in his skin glimmer radiantly. A crisp black jacket tucked into white polo pants, a singular gloved hand, pristine, tight curls billowing about when he removes his helmet.

He looks perfect.

It disgusts Henry. 

He plasters on a saccharine smile as Alexander dismounts his horse, gripping his hand just a fraction too tight in his own.

“You’re sober,” He mumbles beneath his breath. “How refreshing.”

“What kind of host would I be if I were plastered before my esteemed guest even got here?” Alexander quips, voice dripping with sarcasm, slow as honey.

“Oh, you’re too kind, really.” Henry returns. His hand is soft, and oddly cold. He can tell he’s never worked at anything a day in his life, and he finds that it makes him just a bit angry.

“This is going to be one of the most insufferable, tedious days I have ever experienced.” Alexander scoffs.

“Suck it up, buttercup. I don’t wanna be here, either.” Henry tells him, and Alexander tips his head back and laughs, warm, vivid, and spellbinding, as if he’s said something so hilarious that the prince just couldn’t contain himself.

“ _Fuck_ you.” Alexander spits, his grin making the statement that much more uneasy.

“You wish.” Henry replies smoothly, smirking at the pure shock he sees in his eyes.

He doesn’t usually sink this low, but when he does, he does it to win.

The Kensington Palace guest quarters feel familiar to him in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. Zahra had an attendant show him his room, and he spent quite a while taking it all in; his old travel bag sitting on a duvet of spun gold, draped over an ornately carved bed.

He supposes it reminds him of the White House, old and haunted, yet perceived as classically beautiful. 

It’s nothing like the farm in Waco, where their crops rotate from grain to corn every other year, their house bathed in grays and off-whites and rustic wood. It feels like a warm hug— the White House is corporate and cold. He’d give anything to be tending to his chickens and horses and their one old goat just about now, raking leaves and making hay.

He calls up Bea, and they chat for quite a while.

“You reckon it might be haunted?” He asks, and he snorts, rolling his eyes as he skims page after page of the novel he’s editing on his laptop, being sure to correct any and all mistakes he finds.

“I dunno,” He admits. “Maybe.”

At that moment, a light flickers on in the hallway, scaring the daylights out of him.

“ _No!_ ” Bea exclaims, cackling with laughter. “You _gotta_ go see what’s up!” She orders.

He whines pitifully. “ _Fine_ ,” He groans, shutting his laptop and rising up, exiting his room to go investigate. “I think it’s coming from the kitchen.” He murmurs as he hears shuffling down the hallway.   
  


Bea laughs. “Ghost’s got the munchies.”

Henry snorts, covering the speaker. “Shut _up_.”

He watches as Alexander steps into the kitchen, bleary and disheveled. His pajamas are wrinkled and accompanied by house shoes, his hair’s askew, and he’s yawning harder than Henry as ever seen anyone yawn before in his entire life. 

He looks, startlingly, human.

“Is that—“ Bea starts to ask, and he promptly hangs up on her. 

Alexander jumps when he sees Henry leaning against the countertop, pulling earbud out of his ear.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” He apologizes quite uncharacteristically. “Just getting Paletas.” He explains, gesturing towards the refrigerator as if he’s said something that’s universally understood.

“Pardon?”

“Do they not have Paletas in the States?” Alexander asks, brow raised.

“I don’t think so.” He replies, surprised they’ve gotten this far into a conversation without screaming at each other.

“Oh, well, they're like an ice lolly.” The prince explains, crossing over to the freezer and pulling out a box.

Henry’s nearly certain the man is speaking gibberish. “A what?”

“Are you actually being serious?” Alexander questions.

“I am,” Henry replies, confused as he pulls something out of the box and unwraps it.

Oh.

“That’s a popsicle.” He declares, plain as day as he watches Alexander lift the frozen treat to his lips.

The prince makes a noise akin to a mixture of a groan and laughter.

“Are all Americans such _massive_ fucking numpties, or are you just especially dense?”

“I don’t know, do you always go rummaging through your guests’ refrigerators?” Henry quips in response, and it makes Alexander smile.

“Only when I’m awake, and they’re asleep, which is more often than not.” He admits.

“Well, I was working on something for work,” Henry replies, noticing how Alexander’s lips have become slick and shiny. He snaps himself out of it. “Have you thought of what you’re gonna say tomorrow?”

“I have.” Alexander confirms. “And you?”

“I’ve given it some careful consideration.” Henry supplies, on edge. “Should we rehearse?”

“What use would that be?” The prince questions, pulling his phone out of the right hand pocket of his plaid pajama pants.

“I just figured that rehearsing would give us an idea of what to expect—“

“Do be quiet.” Alexander implores, snapping a photo of the box of Paletas with Henry’s hand on the counter. “It’s rather easy, watch.” He breathes, typing away on his keyboard. “Having a midnight snack with _@HenryFox_. Glad to have my best mate back in town. And post.” Alex declares, putting his phone back in his pocket. “I tend to overthink things quite a bit, but I refuse to waste more energy than necessary on this.”

“That’s valid.” Henry replies, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding back.  
  


“You’re excused, now.” Alexander replies, and it immediately puts Henry back on the defensive.

“Of course,” He replies. “Have a good evening.”

“Thank you.”

Henry’s at the entryway when he comes to a realization. He turns around and surveys Alexander, who’s got an eyebrow quizzically raised at him.

He finds that his readers fit his face rather well.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” He comments, stepping out of the kitchen and heading back to his room.

  
Henry’s learned a lot about Alexander today. The first thing that he’s learned is that he’s one charismatic son of a bitch, making talk show hosts laugh and gasp with witty comments, whilst he flounders to answer questions and return fist bumps, even after given social cues. Alexander soaks it all up like a sponge. He loves the attention. Thrives in it.

The second thing that he’s learned is that he genuinely cares about the people in his nation. He refused to let the royal photographers enter the oncology ward with them at the children’s hospital. Henry feels oddly grateful; he knows that he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to take pictures with anyone while his father was sick.

He floats around from child to child, and Henry does the same, occasionally watching as he talks and jokes around with some of the more active children, ones that can handle a conversation.

Alexander approaches one little girl with graying, dark skin— a young girl with leukemia named Claudette, Henry can see written on the board by her wall. She’s got a lovely orange scarf on her head, emblazoned with the Alliance Starbird. 

Henry is more than shocked when Alexander sinks to the ground and grabs ahold of one of her little hands.

“I love your scarf,” Alexander tells her, and the gentleness in his voice sends shockwaves through Henry’s core. “Star Wars fan, are you?” He asks, smiling when Claudette nods excitedly in response. 

“Oh, it’s my absolute favorite.” She gushes. “I’d like to be just like Princess Leia when I’m older because she’s so smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo.”

Alex laughs, and it’s not a press laugh, or like the one he uses in interviews. It’s unfiltered and true, a lush giggle carrying through the room.

“Now we’re talking. I think you’ve got the right idea.” He replies, and that gets Claudette laughing, too.

“Who’s your favorite?” She asks, and Alexander hums.

“Luke’s pretty cool. Good, brave, strongest of them all.” He lists off, never once losing eye contact with her. “He’s proof that you’ll always be good if you’re true to yourself, no matter where you’re from or who your family is.” He explains.

“Luke is pretty cool.” Claudette confirms.

_“¿Hablas español?”_ Alexander asks and her eyes light up.

“ _Un poco_.” She replies.

Alexander nods, and is quiet for a moment, before speaking. _“Creo que eres increíble y que algún día vas a hacer cosas brillantes.”_

Henry has no idea what he just said, but it makes something inside him shift, especially when Claudette flings her little arms around him, hugging him tight.

“All right, Miss Claudette,” A nurse says as she rounds the corner. “You two are free to leave, now. It’s time for her meds.”

Henry nearly falls out of his chair when he’s stunned out of staring, quickly righting himself.

“Miss Beth, Alex and I are mates now!” Claudette wails. “He can stay!”

“Excuse you!” Beth the nurse exclaims, tutting. “That’s no way to address the prince. Terribly sorry, Your Highness.”

“No problem,” Alexander replies, all smiles and calm words. He turns back to Claudette again. “Remember what I told you, linda?” He asks, smiling when she nods. “Good. Remember that for me, okay?”

“Okay.” Claudette replies, giggling.

They say their goodbyes, leave the room, and Henry turns to Alexander with a smile.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Henry replies, shaking his head. “You just seemed like an entirely different person in there. I’d never seen anything like it. I appreciated it.”

It seems to dawn on Alexander that Henry’s circumstances are a little different in regards to this charity outing. 

He opens his mouth to say something, when a loud scream is heard, then a sudden bang. 

Henry’s already on the defensive, yanking Alexander by the hand and dragging him across the hallway as Cash shoves them in a supply closet.

“Stay _down_ ,” The hulking man warns, shutting the door behind them.

Alexander trips, pulling them both to the ground and landing on top of Henry, who presses a hand over his mouth to muffle his groan.

“We need to be quiet in case this is an actual threat—“ He attempts to explain as Alexander drives an elbow into his ribs, hard enough to make him retract his hand.

There’s a struggle, and it ends with Henry pinning him to the floor of the supply closet, the prince wriggle beneath him and trying to buck him off; why has the universe decided to do this to him?

“So there _is_ a little bit of fight in you,” Alexander confirms with a wild facial expression.

“Are you done puttin’ our lives in danger, you nitwit?” Henry asks. “You could get hurt, y’know.”

“Aww, so _sweet_ that you care. We’re learning _all_ your hidden depths today, aren't we, darling?”

Henry has never been so tempted to spit in someone’s face.

“What happened to the sweet little prince who was talkin’ about Star Wars with little kids less than five minutes ago?” He asks instead.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“It’s my concern, because I have to pretend to be your friend so my mother can keep her job!” He hisses. “All of your business is my business!”

“Then by all means, start asking questions.” Alexander sneers.

“What’s your deal?” Henry questions, clearing his throat. “Why do you hate me so much.”

Alexander blinks up at him, shocked. “Do you really not remember?”

“I don’t.” Henry swears. 

Alexander sighs. “We were both in Rio for the 2016 Olympics. You were quite the condescending prick at the diving finals.”

Henry still hasn’t caught on. “Elaborate,” He pushes.

“It seems silly, now.” The prince admits, flushing red.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Henry implores. “I asked for a reason, I want to know.”

“I had started becoming more interested in politics and international affairs, and had heard that your family was going to be there,” He explains, not making eye contact. “I happened to stumble upon you, and you engaged me in polite conversation for a while. The second I turned away, you turned to the man beside you, and said ‘ _Can you get rid of him?_ ’.”

Henry’s eyes widen; it’s crystal clear to him now. He had, in fact, asked Shaan to get Alexander away from him as soon as possible.

It hadn’t been for the reason the prince is thinking of, though.

“I _was_ a gigantic prick.” He admits, moving off of Alexander and helping him sit up. “And you’ll have to forgive me for that. My father had only died fourteen months beforehand; I was a bit rude and evil towards everyone, really.”

Alexander goes white. “Christ, Henry, I— I hadn’t even stopped to consider that. I am so sorry.” He apologizes.

“It’s okay.”

They sit in silence for a while, awkward tension filling the room.

“ _Revenge of the Sith_.” Alex says suddenly. 

“What?”

“My favorite Star Wars film is _Revenge of the Sith_.” He elaborates. “What’s yours?”

“ _Return of the Jedi_.” Henry replies, and to his surprise, Alexander snorts.

“Wow, you’re wrong.” He declares, and Henry lets out a huff of laughter.

“How am I wrong? It’s a personal truth.” He counters.

“A personal truth that is incorrect.”

The banter’s back and forth, discussing the differences between the two films until Cash opens the door.  
  


“False alarm.” He announces. “Some dumbass kids brought firecrackers to surprise their friend.” He explains. “This looks cozy.” He comments, smiling.

“We’re really bonding in here.” Alexander replies, and Henry rolls his eyes before being blinded by the hallway’s lights.

Before he can protest, outside Kensington Palace, Alexander swipes Henry’s phone from his hand.

“What—“

“I’m adding myself as a contact in your phone,” He explains. “If we’re to keep up this elaborate charade, it would only make sense for us to have one another’s numbers.”

“Right,” Henry replies as his phone is shoved into his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting the contact name to be, but ‘ _Alex_ ’ with crown and British flag emojis is not it. “Thank you.”

“No hookup calls.” Alexander teases.

Henry forgers how to breathe; it makes Alexander laugh.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the text messages:  
> Catherine is underlined  
> Henry is italics  
> Alex is bold

**FROM AMERICA, WITH LOVE:** _Alexander and Henry Flaunt Friendship_

**NEW BROMANCE ALERT?** Pics of FSOTUS and Prince Alexander

_Photos: Henry’s Weekend in London_

For the first time in just over a week, Henry is able to scroll through his Twitter feed and Instagram comment section without being harassed and threatened. It’s certainly refreshing; he can take everything off of mute, now. It’s certainly helped that they gave People a few quotes— something about Henry ‘ _cherishing_ ’ his friendship with Alexander and their _‘shared life experiences_ ’ as sons of world leaders. It’s a load of garbage, but everyone eats it all up.

His mother doesn’t look nearly as frazzled anymore, but he still feels guilty for putting her through all of that. He counts it as a win, though, because Fox News has found something else to critique when it comes to Catherine, instead of screeching their heads off about a stupid wedding cake 24/7. 

There’s some new special about Bill Clinton on Netflix that everyone’s been raving about, so he and Bea decide to give it a watch. He’s half-disgusted, half-intrigued as he turns to his sister.

“What’re the odds of one of us getting into somethin’ like this by the end of Mom’s second term?” He asks, entertaining the thought just a bit.

“SNL’s gonna dedicate a full ninety minutes to talkin’ about whatever little twink winds up hangin’ on your shoulder.”

Henry snorts, the thought simultaneously hilarious and horrifying— coming out would kill his mother’s career in seconds. 

“ _God_ , I hope not.”

“Have you seen this, by the way?” Bea asks, giggling, sending him a link on iMessage.

A blog post of animated GIFS and images of them on _This Morning_ together. The fist bump— which doesn’t look as awkward as it feels, smiles that look genuine in the right lighting, glances back and forth meant to double check if one should answer yes or no to certain questions.

They look like a nervous pair of newlyweds, and the comments seem to agree.

_**jesus fucking christ**_ , one commenter writes, **_just make out already._**

Henry doesn’t know whether to laugh, or to let himself silently obsess over the fact that he might not be hiding his sexuality as well as he thought for hours on end.

Naturally, he does both. 

Secret Service agents escort him to the front door of Philip and Martha’s house. It’s a great, big, lovely house, a grand driveway surrounded by small circular shrubs, a two floor estate closed off from the rest of the world by a gate that unlocks with the press of a few buttons on a keypad; safety and privacy are of utmost importance to them, as it should be.

He notices that his brother isn’t home as he knocks at the front door, and Martha materializes to answer it instead. Three words can be used to describe Martha’s look for today: white girl Autumn. A tan sweater, paired with loose curls, dark wash skinny jeans, and a pair of white sneakers. She looks cozy.

“Hi sweet pea,” She greets, her white, perfect teeth burning Henry’s pupils as her smile extends all the way up to her gorgeous green eyes. “Come on in.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He replies with a chuckle, stepping out of the brisk September air and into the warmth of his brother’s estate, shutting the door behind himself. He rubs his hands together as he follows her through the house and into the sitting room. “What’re we workin’ on today?”

“I’m halfway through a blanket for Bea right now, and I thought I’d let you keep working on Catherine’s Christmas present.” She replies. “I made tea a few minutes ago, would you like some?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” He replies with a smile and a nod, reaching for his three-quarters done embroidery project that’s been set out on the coffee table. The design he’d chosen is simple, a flower wreath with a bee in the middle. He’s only got a few more flowers left, then the bee, and it will be finished. It’s not expert, nor perfect, but he made it with his hands, and that means a lot to him.

He’s working on his stab stitches, when Martha returns with a steaming mug.

“Here you are, dear.”

“Oh, thank you.” He replies, setting down his work to accept the mug, taking a sip of the tea; apple and spices.

“Something on your mind?” Martha questions, sitting down and pulling a half-finished lavender purple blanket into her lap. 

Henry hums, setting his cup down. “Why do you ask?” He counters, picking up the hoop and his needle and starting to stab at a flower again.

“Well, you usually come here to work on your embroidery and knitting when something’s on your mind,” She replies, switching from a knit row to a garter stitch as she speaks. “At one point you were coming over twice a week.” She reminds him, giggling. 

He smiles, feeling embarrassed. “I remember,” He tells her, sighing. “I guess something might be on my mind, but it needs to stay between you and me, alright?”

“Of course,” Martha replies, setting down her needles to crack her knuckles. “This is a safe space, Henry. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what makes you most comfortable.”

“I’m still a bit nervous,” He admits.

“No pressure, we’ll talk about something else until you calm down.” She replies, knitting two stitches, slipping the first over the second and binding it off. “How was your little European vacation?” She asks with a smile. “Should I be expecting the prince at Thanksgiving dinner this year?” She jokes.

Henry groans. “I _can’t_ , he’s a pretentious little jerkwad. The most aggravating person I have ever met.”

“Perhaps he’s putting up some sort of front,” She proposes. “He might be intimidated by you.”  
  


“I don’t see how that could be the case in any scenario.” Henry huffs, laughing.

“You’re not the easiest to talk to in the beginning, and you’re pretty tall. I was intimidated when I first met you.” She elaborates.

“I mean, I guess that could be the case.” He replies, sighing. “I’m thinking about coming out to Philip, since we’re on the topic.”

He notices how Martha stills, and almost immediately regrets it.

“I mean, are you sure?” She asks. “Honey, that’s a big step to take, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured to do so.”

“No, no, I actually want to do it.” He tells her. “I don’t have any immediate plans to do it— I’ll probably wait until after the election, honestly. I just know that I want to tell him, even if it puts our relationship at risk.”  
  


“Oh, Henry.” Martha coos, setting down her needles and looking up at him. “Philip loves you, very much. He’s strict and he’s hard on you, but that’s only because he cares. I’m sure there’s nothing you could say that would change that.”

“I know, it just makes me nervous.” He tells her, stitches tight and close together. “He’s just— I don’t know— he makes jokes that make me uncomfortable. I don’t want to become the sole gay person that he aims all of his jabs at, you know?”

“If he even thinks about doing that, I’ll get ‘em with one of these.” She tells him, holding up one of her needles. 

Henry laughs, comfort washing over the anxiety fluttering in his chest. “Thank you, Martha. Really.”

“Of course, gotta stick up for my little bro.” She says, smiling.

An hour and a half later, and he’s finished Catherine’s gift, and is now helping with Bea’s blanket. Both of their phones go off. It’s the family group-chat: Philip has texted a singular pizza emoji.

They shuffle out after putting everything away and grabbing their coats, riding together in his rickety Ram Warlock. He’s honestly surprised the truck hasn’t given out yet; surprised, but definitely grateful. 

By the time he and Martha get to the third floor game room, Bea and Philip are already sat down, the former drinking a lemon lime soda whilst the latter sips at a bottle of cheap beer.

“Sorry we’re late, got held up in traffic.” Henry apologizes. 

“It’s fine dude, don’t worry about it.” Philip replies, gently grabbing hold of Martha’s hand, smiling as she sits beside him.

“Pizza’s over on the table.” Bea says. 

“Am I makin’ plates for everyone?” Henry asks, immediately regretting it when he hears a chorus of ‘yes’. Hawaiian for Bea, thin crust veggie for Philip and Martha, and Neapolitan for himself and his mother. He brings everyone their plates, grabbing his own and a soda before taking a seat next to Bea on the couch; it’d be best not to mix his meds and alcohol.

“Why’d y’all let me be president?” Catherine sighs as she makes her way through the door, stylus scrawling quickly and effortlessly against her phone screen. 

“What were supposed to do?” Philip asks, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “Stop you?”

“No, but you could’ve gently talked me out of it.” She replies. She doesn’t look stressed, but rather tired.

“And let Rhett Montgomery _ruin_ our country? _Hell no!_ ” Bea exclaims. 

“Amen,” Catherine chuckles, slipping her stylus and phone into her pocket. “Hello, my loves.” She greets them, face already looking several years younger, now that it’s been pulled away from her phone.

“Hi, Mama.” Henry replies through a mouthful of pizza. “Plate’s on the table.”

“Thank you, sweet boy.” She tells him, ruffling his hair on the way to grab her food, settling down between him and Bea after kicking off her heels. “Okay, lets get right into it. One good thing, one bad thing, go.”

Family dinners are a rarity for the Fox family, with everyone working and attending press events and the like— lawyers, kindergarten teachers, and musical therapists don’t get too much time off, and Catherine never stops going.

“One bad thing: lost my case. One good thing: still got a pay raise.” Philip starts.

“Very good,” Catherine intercepts. “Sorry about the case, though.”

“‘S fine, my client’s argument was a mess; I’m just glad it’s over.”

“Next!”

“One good thing: I’m almost finished with Bea’s Christmas present.” Martha starts.

“When are you gonna tell me what it is?” Bea asks after a bite of pineapple and ham.

“I’m _not_.” She replies, folding the last bite of her first piece in half. “One bad thing: a kid in my class had a tantrum yesterday. I had to call his parents.”

Catherine makes a noise of sympathy in the back of her throat. “Poor thing, hopefully he’ll do better next week.”

“Hopefully.” Martha sighs.

“One good thing: I didn’t have to work today and got to sleep in.” Bea starts, sipping her drink. “One bad thing: I may or may not have broken one of Henry’s mugs. Sorry.” She says, wincing when Henry gasps.

“Which one?” He asks, completely shocked that she waited this long to tell him.

“The one with all the cacti on it,” She replies, voice strained. “It was on the edge of the counter, and it fell off. ‘M sorry.”

“‘S fine, I can get another online. I’m just glad that it’s not one of the ones that I got over in New York.” He replies, taking another bite of his pizza.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, until Philip pipes up. “You’re supposed to participate too, you know.”  
  


Henry groans. He’s been holding onto something for a little under a week now, and he doesn’t want anyone making a big deal yet.

“Fine. Bad thing: forgot to set my alarm to take my meds. Didn’t take ‘em ‘til noon.”

“You’re the world’s _worst_ about that.” Philip comments.

“And y’all wonder why I don’t share nothin’ with you.” He remarks under his breath.

“ _Enough_.” Catherine says, voice full of authority, promptly ending the argument. “No fighting during family dinner. What’s your good thing, baby?”

“Do I _really_ have to?” He asks, wiping his fingers on a napkin, honestly feeling put out after his brother’s snide comments; he hadn’t realized that it was Philip’s responsibility to tell him he’s bad at remembering to take his antidepressants.

“Yeah, Hen. We wanna hear about your accomplishments.” Bea tells him, patting his shoulder.

“My publishing house offered me a book deal after I showed a colleague some poems I was working on.” He sighs, and as expected, everyone is overreacting, congratulating him and asking a million questions. It makes his brain swim. “May I be excused, Mama?”

“Of course, baby.”

“Thank you,” He croaks, abandoning the room and heading down the hall, trying to focus on his breathing as he makes his way to his room, locking the door behind himself.  
  


Within a few seconds, his phone buzzes, and it’s a text from his mother.

Sorry about them. I know they can be a lot. Proud of you. <3

He smiles, sending one of his own back.

_Thanks. <3_

An hour later, he receives another text. This time, from Alexander. It’s a picture of a young Jude Law from Wilde, all smoldering smirk and blue eyes.

**you remind me of this bloke** , the attached text reads.

**this is Alex, by the way.**

Henry rolls his eyes, and turns his phone off completely.

He doesn’t intend on returning the text, not in the slightest, until he sees Alex on the cover of _People_ a week later— _PRINCE ALEXANDER FLIES SOUTH FOR WINTER_ — complete with Alex draped dramatically across the white sands of an Australian beach. His swim trunks are sensible and minuscule, a rich maroon in color. His curls are wet, and he looks like some young god. Henry doesn’t even try to stop himself.

_You say I swan around_ , he texts along with a snap of the spread. _But then you have the audacity to let photographers take photos like this?_

He considers it a job well done when he receives a middle finger emoji in response.

A follow-up retort from Alex comes two days later with a screenshot of a Daily Mail tweet that reads, _Is Henry Fox going to be a father?_ The attached message says, **but we were oh so careful, my love** , and it startles Henry so much that he chokes on his tea at breakfast, forcing Bea to beat on his back and completely overreact.

As it turns out, Alex can be extremely funny. He adds it to the ever growing list of things he knows about the prince. 

He seems to text Henry most frequently when trapped in unenviable moments of pure monotony. Quick pictures during appearances, rambling paragraphs of text during meandering briefings on financials and family land holdings, or, once, a full body shot while he’s being fitted for a suit; charcoal grey with a sleek black tie.

He can’t deny it as a bead of sweat rolls down his spine— Alexander is quite the attractive man.

He wouldn’t say he likes him, however, although he does provide quick wit and fresh perspectives on most topics. He enjoys the way Alex seemingly speaks his mind on any and every topic; he’s lively and unrestricted, as there’s no need for him to him to hide everything he says under charm and charisma. 

Henry often texts him when he’s mind-achingly bored, or minutes away from neurotic after a long work day. It’s little things: random thoughts on English versus American beer, making fun of an backhanded compliment in an article about Alex, sending him a picture of David in his Slytherin scarf.

**i don’t know WHO you think you’re tricking with that slytherin scarf. you’re a hufflepuff through and through, you fucking muppet.**

Henry later clarifies that David, not him, is a Slytherin; he sees himself as more of a Ravenclaw-type individual.

He learns quite a bit about Alex’s private life through texting and his socials. His days are planned out to the minute by Zahra, who still has Henry star struck, especially when Alex texts him things like, **just tripped down a flight of stairs and Zahra screamed at me until she was hoarse.** or **Zahra is on the phone with Iceland and she’s had six cups of coffee in two hours.** He returns the favor with facts about Shaan, who has Alex absolutely enamored.

It’s becoming apparent that the HRH Prince Alexander Fact Sheet has omitted, and straight up fabricated, a great number of things. Alex’s favorite food isn’t mutton pie; it’s the Elotes his father makes when he spends summers with him in Scotland. He donates absurd amounts of money to women’s and children’s charities— one of them having been started by his best friend, Nora.  
  


He learns that Alex is super into history, and surprisingly, American politics. The prince goes on the world’s longest diatribe on the founding fathers, and Henry learns more about Benjamin Franklin than he ever wanted to know. Interesting, he replies. Several hours later. Henry tries his best not to swear, but he doesn’t mind Alex’s filthy, vile mouth. 

He learns quite a bit about June as well. The two of them are thick as thieves, down for mischief until the end, although June is a little more mild. He also learns in a roundabout way that she has always favored their father. 

**did Beatrice force you into dresses and makeup as a child, too?**

_Does June also have a fondness for sneaking your leftover peach cobbler out of the fridge in the middle of the night like some Dickensian street urchin?_

Nora has more common cameos than anyone else, and Henry is honestly confused as to how someone so poised and grateful can be friends with the royal version of the kid in every American high school that’s obsessed with World War II. She’s always either doing something amazing; swimming in the Dead Sea, visiting a wolf sanctuary in Colorado Springs, doing a photo shoot with someone who may or may not be Rihanna— or shooting a film, or working with her non-profit. She’s amazing, really. Reminds him a whole lot of Pez, but with less chaos and more elegance.

_In the world’s most boring meeting with Philip. Don’t let the papers print lies about me after I’ve garotted myself with one of his wife’s infinity scarves_ , he texts on a day that’s slow as molasses, shutting his phone off after Philip calls him out on it.

Later that night, sat at his desk, scrawling away in his journal, Alex responds.

**planning on seizing more land from indigenous people?**

_Ha, like your family has any room to talk. My grandmother’s coming up from Florida to visit for Christmas. If I have to hear him wax poetic about her anymore, I might just scream._

**ah, yes** , Alex replies. **The harrowing struggle of handling extended family.**

_That was the whole meeting, right there. She’s a racist, homophobic, xenophobic, Southern Baptist bigot from Georgia, and I’ve had to endure her wrath for practically my entire life. I think this will be the year I finally give her a piece of my mind._

A few minutes pass before the next message.

**i am low-key impressed. good on you, mate.**

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and sends a final message.

_One does not endure endless tyranny without a bit of youthful rebellion._

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
Oct 30, 2019, 1:07 PM

  
**i loathe that tie.**

_What tie?_

**the one in that Instagram you  
just posted.**

_What’s wrong with it? It’s only gray.  
_

**exactly. try patterns sometime,  
and stop frowning at your phone  
like i know you’re doing rn. It’s   
most unbecoming. **

_Patterns are considered a  
“statement”. I don’t have  
anything to say with what  
I wear._

**add a splash of color to  
your next outfit. do it for  
the gram. **

_You are the most  
obnoxious person I   
__have ever met._

**thanks!**

  
  
Nov 17, 2019, 11:04 AM  
  


  
_I’ve received jackets,  
tee shirts, & joggers  
with your face on them  
in a massive Amazon  
box. Is this your idea  
of a prank?_

**just trying to warm up that  
dreary wardrobe, darling.**

  
  
_I hope you find this  
gross miscarriage of  
funds to be worth it.  
Shaan made secret   
service open it first._

  
**definitely worth it, even more  
worth it now. tell Shaan i say hi  
and that his sweet ass should   
come on extended holiday   
across the pond. xoxoxo **  
  


_I would rather be gored  
by a longhorn._


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex: Bold  
> Henry: Italics  
> Nora: Bold + Italics
> 
> Tw: panic attack, please proceed with caution

“Baby, this is public knowledge.” Catherine starts, nearly jogging down a West Wing corridor in her heels. “It’s not my fault that you just found out.”

“So you’re tellin’ me,” Henry says loudly, matching his mother’s strides from heel to toe. “That every Thanksgiving, they keep those two birds, probably riddled with anxiety, in a luxury sweet at the damn _Willard,_ on the taxpayers’ dime?”

“Yes, Henry, they do—“  
  


“Mama, that’s wrong and you _know_ it!”

“They’re two forty-pound birds named Cornbread and Stuffing, and they're already in the motorcade goin’ down Pennsylvania Avenue. There’s no time to reallocate ‘em, son.”

“Bring ‘em to the house!” He blurts, voice raising just a bit.

“And where’n the _hell_ do you suppose we’re gonna put two grown damn turkeys?” She asks, coming to a pause and she adjusts her glasses. “Shoot kid, I love you, and your heart's with mine on this, but we’re not in Waco. This house is historically protected. Where am I gonna put ‘em until they’re pardoned tomorrow?”

Henry swallows, looking his mother in the eyes. “Keep ‘em in my room. You know I don’t care.”

Catherine laughs, stressed and tired. “That’s funny.”

“Who said I was jokin’?”

Her eyes widen at this, and she shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Mama—“

“I said no.” Catherine doubles down, sounding very serious. “I’m not puttin’ the turkeys in your room. End of discussion.”

Henry takes in a massive gulp of breath, and holds it. He hasn’t done this in many, many years, but he’s not about to be moved on this.

“You’re not gonna get your way by doin’ that.” She tells him, crossing her arms.

He stares at her in silence, breath still held. He figures she wishes she didn’t let him play rigorous sports and do choir from elementary to high school; they could be here a while.

After about ten more seconds, she groans.

“Fine! I’ll put the birds in your room, just take a breath.” She implores. “You’re freakin’ me out.”

He exhales, smiling softly as his victory is acknowledged.

“Thank you, Mama.”

Henry’s absolutely overjoyed that night when the birds are brought to his bedroom. They’re nothing more than two big, fat babies with grey and brown feathers covering nearly every inch of them. 

_They’re here,_ he texts Alex, absolutely beside himself with happiness. _They’re huge, the biggest birds I’ve ever seen! Precious, too._

Cornbread stares at him from a huge crate next to his love seat, inquisitive. A farm vet comes by every couple of hours to check on them. She seems shocked by his many, many questions.

From the en suite, Stuffing releases a comical gobble. It makes him laugh.

He had planned on actually getting some writing done tonight— he really had. He had been brainstorming whenever he’d learned about the turkeys from CNN, and had been watching highlights from the Republican primary debate between writing out concepts.

Instead, he’s babysitting two turkeys. It’s not quite what he pictured, but it’s definitely interesting. Of that much, Henry is certain. He knows Bea would be losing her mind— she’s always been bothered by anything that isn’t cute and cuddly, besides her horses. He can imagine the headlines now. _BREAKING: FDOTUS HAS MENTAL BREAKDOWN AS TURKEYS CHASE HER THROUGH WHITE HOUSE._

**please send photos** , Alex replies, and Henry is more than willing to oblige. They’ve started texting one another every day; they’re both terrible insomniacs, so the time difference doesn’t matter too much. Alex will send him a snap at seven a.m., fresh from polo or tennis practice, and receive one of Henry at two a.m., donning warm pajamas and holding a mug of Earl Grey, in bed, stacks of paper and pens on either side of his laptop. When Alex sends him the same type of photo, going over notes for his classes for his final semester at Oxford; it kills him to see his messy bed head with his readers perched on the bridge of his nose. Makes him want to do things that he shouldn’t.

He snaps a photo of himself and Cornbread, chucking up a peace sign and smiling. He flinches just a bit when the bird flaps his wings, agitated by his camera’s flash.

“I’m sorry,” He coos, giggling at the polite gobble he receives.

**that thing is terrifying** , Alex responds.

_No, he’s cute!_ Henry types in response. _Especially when he gobbles._

“I want you to sit here and listen to this absolutely majestic creature—“

“Henry?” Alex questions, voice low and husky, doing something weird to his stomach. “Have you seriously rung me at three in the morning to listen to a prehistoric beast’s mating song?”

“I most certainly have, what about it?” He retorts, and Alex sighs.

“I don’t understand how you’re so infatuated with them— that thing could eat you.”

He hears rustling over the phone, and imagines Alex in the wrinkled pajamas he’d donned in the kitchen, rolling onto his side in bed, perhaps turning a lamp on to illuminate his dark bedroom.

“Let’s hear it, then.” Alex grunts. “Out with the gobble.”

“Alrighty, lemme just— there.” Henry replies, putting Alex on speakerphone, holding his cellphone up to Cornbread’s crate.  
  


Five seconds pass, then ten.

“ _Truly_ majestic,” Alex replies, voice oozing with sarcasm.

“This isn’t representative of my evening,” He explains quickly. “They’ve been gobbling all night.”

“Sure they have,” Alex says, mocking yet gentle.  
  


“I’m gonna do something, but you need to promise me you won’t laugh.” Henry tells him.

“I won’t.” Alex promises.

“Okay,” Henry starts. “Okay.”

He takes a deep breath, and makes a loud noise mimicking the gobble of a turkey.

Alex is in the middle of giggling, when a loud noise erupts from Cornbread, making him shriek in fear.

“ _Fucking Christ!_ ” He shouts, and Henry’s absolutely beside himself with laughter. “Did you _hear_ that?”

“I’m sorry; I went deaf after you screamed bloody murder.” Henry replies.

“It’s not funny, that was _horrifying!_ ” Alex insists. “How are you going to sleep with them just in your room like that?”

“I’ll get in my bed, and go to sleep.” Henry supplies, chuckling.

“What if they escape? Birds are descendants of _raptors_ , Henry. Surely you know that.” Alex says, still sounding panicked. “Your white arse really _would_ be unbothered by having creatures directly related to dinosaurs in your room— I can’t deal with you right now.”

“I’m sendin’ secret service agents after you,” Henry announces. “They’ll come in the dead of night, nobody will suspect a thing. It’ll all look like one big humiliating accident.”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation?”

“Toilet heart attack.”

“Jesus.”

“You’ve been warned.”

“I figured you might kill me in a much more personal way,” Alex starts. “Silk pillow stuffed with feathers pressed lightly over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Shakespearean. Sensual.” He sighs over the line.

“Ha. Well,” Henry coughs, something about Alex’s voice— playful and bordering on sultry— affecting him in a way he hadn’t quite anticipated. Making him sweat. 

“Anyway,” Alex replies as Henry climbs into bed. “It doesn’t matter, because those damned birds are going to snuff you out before you can even give the orders to have me offed.”

“Wrong, Cornbread, Stuffing, and I are gonna team up and go rogue. Expect me in your room by noon tomorrow, princess.”

Alex snorts, an awful, glorious noise. “Fuck _off_.”

“What’re you doin’?” Henry asks.

“What am _I_ doing?” Alex echos, incredulous. “I was _sleeping_ when you rang me. What are _you_ doing?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m not a high school bully, Henry. I don’t care.”

“I was watching _Great British Bake Off,_ ” He admits, cheeks turning red.

“Cute,” is Alex’s initial response. “But definitely not embarrassing. What else?”

Henry sighs. “‘M wearing a peely face mask.”

“I knew it!” Alex exclaims, and Henry’s face is burning.

“ _Instant_ regret.” He mumbles.

“I knew that you had some ridiculous European skincare routine. How many steps does it have? Twelve? Fourteen?”

“No!” Henry pouts, and he can hear Alex giggling on the opposite end. “Just unscented soap and a peely mask once a week. If you do too much it makes you break out worse.” He explains. “I like to look my best, considering I’m constantly being photographed without my consent. I didn’t realize I was gonna be _scrutinized_.”

“I’m not scrutinizing,” Alex tells him, still giggling. “Have to keep those pores in check. So, Bake Off?”

“It’s soothing.” He explains, backing off the defensive. “Everyone’s quiet and nice, the colors are all soft and the music is relaxing. You learn so much about baking, Alex. So much. When everything seems all loud and bad, I can put it on and just drift away.”

“I’ve seen a few American cooking shows, and they're anxiety inducing,” Alex admits with a chuckle. “So many camera cuts, so much sweating and drama. Bake Off makes Chopped look like the bloody Manson Tapes.”

“I feel like this explains quite a few of our differences,” Henry says, smiling when he hears Alex laugh across the line, soft little puffs of tired chuckling.

“You know,” Alex tells him. “You’ve really surprised me.”

Henry’s mouth goes dry. “In what way?”

“I don’t know, you’re just— you’re not some boring, agressive arse.”

Henry laughs, relieved. “Wow, what an honor.”

“I suppose you have your depths.”

“You thought I was some closeted Republican, didn’t you?”

“No, I just based all of my assumptions about you off of one interaction, and that was wrong of me to do.” Alex admits, sounding sheepish. “In my defense, you’ve named the dog David, which is a wee bit boring.”

“After Bowie.” Henry elaborates.

“I—“ Alex stutters, pausing. “Are you _serious_ right now? You fucking _muppet_!” He exclaims. “Why not just call him Bowie?”

“A bit on the nose, ain’t it?” Henry asks. “A man should have some element of mystery.”

“I suppose.” Alex replies, yawning loud enough that Henry can hear it.

“Alex,” Henry says, firm.

“Yes?”

“I’m not gonna let the turkeys _Jurassic Park_ me.” He tells him, gentle. “I’m not the guy from _Seinfeld_ , I’m Jeff Goldblum, m’kay?”

“Okay.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.” Alex retorts, voice rasping in a way that makes Henry smile.

“I will,” He promises. “As soon as you get off the phone.”

“Alright,” Alex concedes. “If they eat you, let me know.”

Henry chuckles. “I will, but you shouldn’t entertain such thoughts right before bed.”

“Okay.” Alex replies.

“Okay,” Henry echoes.

“Okay,” Alex says again.

Henry realizes he’s not quite sure how to end this conversation. He stares at Cornbread, who’s giving him a weary expression. He finds it relatable.

“Okay,” Henry repeats, voice barely above a whisper. “So. Goodnight. Have sweet dreams.”

“Alright,” Alex responds, nearly inaudible. “Goodnight.”

Alex hangs up, and Henry stares at his phone. Something about that whole ordeal felt significant in a way that he doesn’t understand. Intimate. Some end feels left untied.

_I sent you turkey pictures_ , he texts as he pulls the duvet up to his chest. _Come through_.

Two minutes later, he receives a picture of Alex in bed, shrouded in white and gold linens, smiling with his eyes shut. His readers are all smushed against his face, his curls are frizzy, and his lips look as if they’ve been bitten.

**hope this holds you over until tomorrow** , he says, followed by, **goodnight though, really.**

Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
Dec 8, 2019, 8:53 PM

 **  
there’s an action film  
marathon on and did  
you know that your  
dad was an   
absolute stud?**

  
_I AM BEGGING YOU PLEASE STOP_

It’s always an event when Mawmaw comes to visit for the winter holidays. A cold Southern Baptist woman born and raised in Georgia, ‘ _abandoned_ ’ when Henry’s family picked up and moved to Waco to start the farm. Her subtle racist and homophobic remarks never go unchecked. Her nails are always lacquered a nude pink color, her silver hair in a straight, precise bob. He doesn’t understand why Philip likes her so much; she gives Henry the chills. 

“Merry Christmas, my darlings.” She announces from behind a flurry of secret service agents, flicking ash from her cigarette. He and Bea both grimace when they’re pulled in for hugs, pecked on the cheek, and asked about respective romantic partners. Martha looks uncomfortable. Philip is completely unbothered.  
  


Dinner is going relatively smooth, for once. Mawmaw’s comments have been minimal, and everyone’s been minding their own business, until Philip decides that talking politics is the correct move to make. Henry stays out of the debate, for the most part, until things really start picking up.

“I just don’t see why we had to go and ruin the sanctity of marriage by lettin’ the homosexuals get married.”

“I don’t think this is—“ Bea starts.

“No, no, let her finish.” Philip replies, taking a sip of his wine. Martha looks mortified.

“I mean, what ever happened to don’t ask, don’t tell?” Mary questions, chuckling as she stabs at a forkful of beef roast. “Whatever happened to civil unions?”

“Mom, they’re human beings just like us.” Catherine says, disappointed, but not surprised. “It’s their right to get married.”

“Have you not read Leviticus, Catie dear?” Mary questions. “The Bible says that man shall not lay with man. It is immoral.”

“That’s a mistranslation, actually. The saying actually reads ‘man shall not lay with boy’ in Hebrew.” Henry says, not even trying to stop himself.

“Now, what do _you_ know about the Bible?” Mary scoffs. “You stopped goin’ to church when you were ten.”

“More than you, apparently.” Bea blurts, and Henry’s heart sinks.

“Shut up, Bea, didn’t you ever get taught any _respect_?” Philip spits.

“I taught you all to stand up for what’s _right_ , son, so why don’t you just watch your mouth?” Catherine retorts, and then everyone’s getting into it, except for Martha, who’s pouring herself a hefty glass of wine.

It’s too loud.

It’s too much.

It’s painful.

He needs to leave.

Right now.

Without being excused, Henry rises up from the table, slamming his chair into it.

“You’re fucking shameful.” He curses, voice wobbling dangerously. “Every last one of you. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” He sneers, stalking off in the direction of his room, breathing heavy, eyes stinging.

As soon as he locks his bedroom door, he sinks to the floor, sobbing. It’s heavy, and his body shakes as he cries, but he feels that he deserves it. Why can’t his family just be normal? Why do they have to invite Mawmaw every year? Why does Philip agree with everything she says?   
  


His cries only get louder when someone knocks on his door. They knock again, and a wail rips through him. 

Whoever it is seems to leave him alone after that.

His ringtone starts blaring, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and putting it on speaker, hyperventilating. 

“Hello, Henry.” Alex calls out, sounding tired, yet serene.

“‘Lo.” He wheezes in response, chest aching with stabbing pain. He’s dying. He’s going to die in here all alone, the only other person making contact with him being thousands of miles away.

“June’s here with me,” Alex tells him, chuckling. “It’s half two, everyone else is in bed. Say hi, Bug.”

“Hi, Henry!” June calls out, like sunshine on a cloudy day. He knows her giggle would be infectious, if he wasn’t in crippling pain and couldn’t feel the breath being sucked straight out of his chest. “Alex has on his snowman jim-jams—“

“That’s _enough_ , thank you.” Alex intercepts, and everything sounds muffled, like June’s had a pillow shoved in her direction. 

Another sob rips through Henry, and he curses himself mentally, gasping and wheezing as tears stream down his face.

“Is something happening right now?” Alex asks, suddenly very serious.

Henry tries to speak, but only a soft, floundering noise of panic leaves his lips.

“June, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Alex announces. “Hush. Yes, you can have the biscuits. Goodnight.” He says, and Henry’s head is pounding. “What’s wrong, Henry?”

“I don’t know,” He whimpers, and at this point, he truly doesn’t. “Everything _hurts_.”

“Tell me about it.” Alex implores. “Talk me through it, Henry.”

“My mawmaw came in from Florida for Christmas, and I just—“ He starts, sobbing and sniffling. “God, Alex, she’s _awful_. The worst woman to ever exist.” He stammers, going he must be awful to try and understand between all the choked up gasps. “Everyone got in a fight, and I left, and— and—“ He feels his airways restrict and whimpers again. “It’s all so _bright_ and _loud_. It _hurts_.”

“Shh, shh,” Alex hushes. “Poor thing,” He coos. “I’m so sorry, Hen. Can you do something for me, please? Pretty please?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Am I on speaker?”

“Yeah.”

“Set the phone down.” Alex orders, and Henry complies. “Clench your fists nice and tight for me.”

“Mmm.” Henry attempts to hum, knuckles white and hands shaking from squeezing them.

“Good lad,” Alex praises. “You’re doing so well. Start taking in a deep breath, and don’t stop until I say.”  
  


Henry counts to seven while he inhales.

“Hold it, now.”

He counts to eight this time.

“Let it all out, Hen.”

He counts all the way to eleven now, skin tingling as he cries and quakes.

“We’re going to do that again, alright?”

“Okay,”

Alex walks him through it three more times before he’s slumped against the wall, completely drained of all energy. He’s not better; numb might be the proper word. He doesn’t hurt anymore, but he’s sore. It’s still a victory to him.

“How are you?” Alex questions after a few minutes.

“‘M alright.” He replies, voice practically gone as he drags his fingers over the floor, committing the feel of the wooden floor boards to memory.

“Good,” Alex says, and it makes Henry feel warm. 

Not hot.

Not smothered.

Pleasantly, comfortably warm.

“You need to get some sleep, Hen.” Alex tells him. “Crying can take quite a bit out of you.”

“Why did you call?” He blurts, realizing that Alex must have had something in mind.

“I just wanted to wish you a happy holiday, is all.”

Henry laughs, dry and croaking. “Happy Holidays.”

“You, too. Now, in to bed with you.” Alex insists. “Go on, now.”

Henry pulls himself up off the ground— which takes Herculean effort, unlocks the door, and schleps over to his bed, plopping down and burying his face in the pillows.

“Are you laying down?” Alex asks.

“Mhm.” He confirms.

“All cozy?”

“As much as I can be.”

“Good, take it easy.” Alex implores. “Sweet dreams, Hen.”

“G’night, Alex.”

His body feels like dead weight when Alex hangs up, mind in an unstoppable, buzzing haze. He hears a rhythmic knock at his door not too soon after; Bea. He doesn’t respond, lets her walk in the door. 

“You awake?” She questions.

“I guess,” He whispers, uncomfortable, eyes burning when she turns on the light.

“Good, because I brought you a piece of cheesecake, and I would hate to see it go to waste.”

He sighs, sniffling, pulling himself up.

“Oh, honey.” Bea coos sympathetically, and it’s like a shot through the heart.

“It’s fine,” Henry insists, sniffling. “I’m fine.”  
  


He’s not actually fine, but in his hysterical state, he’s deluded himself into thinking that it would upset Alex if he knew Henry was crying again so soon. So, he holds the tears back.

“I’m so sorry, pumpkin.” She apologizes, sitting at the end of his bed, reaching forward and ruffling his hair. “I know today was rough on you. Mom ripped Philip a new ass, for sayin’ all that.”

“Do you think Mama knows?” He asks, unable to help himself.

“I dunno— I think she might have an inkling. If tonight’s any consolation though, we know she’s supportive.” She justifies, pausing as Henry nods. “I heard you and Pez talking; what did he have to say about all this?”

“That, uhm, was actually Alex.” He explains, a tremor running through him. She smiles, and it embarrasses him.

“So, you’re friends now?” She asks.

“I suppose so.”

“That’s good— I knew he was nice deep down.”

Their conversation drifts into nothingness, and Henry lets Bea spoon-feed him cheesecake and tuck the blankets up to his chin and kiss his cheek; he figures it makes her feel like a good older sister, and he doesn’t have the physical strength to do so himself.

He’s out like a light in minutes. 

They’re still packing up Christmas trees when it starts. 

Bea’s organizing the playlist and the dance floor, Philip’s finalizing the menu, and Henry has just created the most exquisite Snapchat filter that he has ever laid his eyes upon.

The time for the Legendary Balls-Out Bananas Fox Family New Year’s Eve Party.

Philip insists on calling the event by its proper name, the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala, but Henry likes the name that he and Bea came up with much better; it has creative, artistic flare. Every year, on January 1st, the three of them fill up the room with around three hundred friends and acquaintances, celebrities they’re mutuals with on Instagram and Twitter, potential political connections, and otherwise notable twenty and early thirty-somethings. Technically speaking, the event is a fund raiser, and it generates so much money for charity and good PR that even Catherine approves.

“Who put Alex and June on here?” Henry asks, eyeing two separate confetti samples; are they going metallic, or for a more elegant gold and black look?

Bea is stuffing her face with cake samples, and Henry turns to her first.

“Did you?”

“Uh-uh.” She mumbles, mouth full of chocolate cake.

“Pip?”

“Not me.” His brother replies, sipping on a light beer.

“I did,” Martha admits. “You should have invited him yourself— you two are friends, and your relationship gives Catherine a political advantage.”

“I have friends other than him, you know.” He claims, perhaps going on the defensive.

“Yeah?” Bea asks, smirking. “Name three.”

“Well there’s Pez—“ He starts pausing.

“And?” She pushes.

“And...” He trails off, going red.

“And Alexander will be coming to the party, whether anyone likes it or not.” Philip declares. “So suck it up.”

“They bringing anyone?” He asks, trying to fight the warm flush.

“Nora Holleran.” Martha says, eyeing the confirmed list of guests.

“This’ll be fun.” Bea decides.

Henry fights the urge to glare at every last one of them.

He checks Alex’s Instagram on the day of the party, and it confirms that he is, in fact, on the way. He sees a post on Nora’s page that makes his face light up. Alex’s head is on her shoulder, June’s resting on the opposite. Alex is smiling, and so is Nora. June looks as if she’s sleeping. They appear to be on a private jet. He swipes to the next photo is of Alex in a lovely, soft-looking green sweatshirt that makes his skin pop. He’s grinning, and has his feet propped on the windowsill. He looks well-rested. Good.

_**USA Bound!**_ **_#YoungAmericaGala2019_** Nora captions the image, and Henry is beaming despite himself.

At that exact moment, Alex texts him.

**ATTN: will be wearing a burgundy velvet suit tonight. please do not attempt to steal my shine. it will only result in painful humiliation, and i don’t think anyone wants that.**

Henry chuckles, texting back.  
  


_Wouldn’t dream of it._

From there, he gets dressed, and he’s swept off into the Cosmetology Room, and he gets his hair done with Pip whilst he watches the girls transform into their camera ready selves. He’s gone a little bolder, per Alex’s request; deep navy suit and a bright copper tie in a narrow cut, whilst Philip has taken the classic black and white approach. Bea is in a cut-out dress made of acid-green silk, and her hair has been straightened. Martha, not at all shocking, has gone for a short, strapless, pale pink number made out of ruffled tulle; Henry finds that she looks a bit like a princess.

When Pez shows up, Henry is absolutely stunned. His hair is now bright bubblegum pink, his nails are painted an impressive array of colors, and his bomber jacket is covered in such a vivid floral design just to look at it. He’s all mischievous eyes and sequin smiles as he takes off with Bea across the dancefloor— the band, some pop act that Bea had found is currently covering “American Girl”.

He orders a whiskey, and the guests start pouring in. Soon enough, folks are wall-to wall, and people are dancing like they’ll drop dead if they don’t.

He’s wondering when Alex and his little group are going to make their grand debut, whenever Pez materializes at his side and shouts, “Incoming!”

  
Alex is here, June and Nora at his sides. Nora’s soft curls have been swept to the side with the silver pin that matches the geometric pattern on her black dress; her smile is wild, she looks nothing like she does on the magazine covers. June’s gown is a plunging navy blue Zac Posen number, and her hair has been styled to perfection— she reminds Henry of a Hollywood starlet.

Then, there’s Alex, as fit and mind-bogglingly attractive as ever in his burgundy velvet suit. His curls are immaculate, and his teeth seem to glow, even in the darkness of the room. His eyes are soft; a genuine smile. He feels restless and hot beneath his sternum. He knows it isn’t the whiskey.

“I see that you’ve taken my advice with the pop of color,” Alex says over the music, voice moneyed and lush, his hand smoothing over Henry’s chest. It does something unspeakable to him.

“Pez!” June greets, stirring Henry from his thoughts, eyes dancing with excitement. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” Pez replies, lifting June’s hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. It makes her giggle. “I think that you are, perhaps, the most radiant jewel of a woman that I have ever met, and that my life will never be the same after tonight. Would you like to dance with me?”

“Very much, yes.” June breathes, helpless, and Henry watches Pez take her away.

“She talks about him constantly,” Alex admits.

Henry smiles. “Does she?”

“Yes— I was afraid she might blow a fuse if I didn’t bring her along.” Alex says, laughing, brilliant and genuine.

Bea and Martha were right; he really does like Alex.

“Come get a drink with me?” Alex asks, and it’s almost innocent.

Henry smiles. “Sure.”

He tries to imagine what they must look like together— the First Son and the Prince of Wales, shoulder to shoulder on the way to the bar. It’s oddly exhilarating, making something inside of him tremble. It’s some untouchable fantasy; nobody knows Alex as intimately as he does.

Henry is pleased by Alexander’s presence as they drink and talk. Eventually, he starts leading him around the party, introducing him to White House interns, trying not to laugh as they go red and stutter. Alex has that look on his face; he used to mistake it with cold indifference, but he sees it now for what it really is: concealed bemusement.

They dance and mingle, and Martha gives a wonderful speech about the immigration fund they’re supporting with their donations, and Henry dodges an aggressive come-on from the female love-interest in the newest _Spider-Man_ film, just as Bea steals Alex away from him. He tries to decipher what they’re talking about— Bea smiling behind a can of strawberry-flavored sparking water, and later laughing so hard that she nearly falls off her stool, before Alex is ultimately swallowed up by the crowd again.

Early 2000s hits start playing later into the night when the DJ takes over— songs that were popular when Henry was a young child, and were still in rotation at high school dances— and it’s then that he finds Alex once again, like a man desperately lost at sea.

“You don’t dance?” Alex asks, his smile goofy and very telling that he’s up to absolutely no good as he watches Henry struggle to figure out what to do with his hands; this is far more pleasant than his last encounter with the prince when he was inebriated.

“Not at all,” He replies honestly, smiling right back at him. “Texas public schools don’t really offer dance lessons.”

“It’s all in the hips. You need to loosen them up.” Henry feels both of his hands slide down his torso and rest on his hips, and he freezes with a sharp intake of breath. “That’s quite literally the exact opposite of what I said.”

“Alex, I don’t—“ Henry starts, and Alexander presses one finger to his lips, effectively stunning him into silence.

“Hush. You talk too much,” He says playfully. “Watch me.”

Henry likes to think he’s a strong-willed man, but he loses all rational, comprehendible thoughts as he watches Alexander’s hips roll.

He knocks back a flute of champagne. “Believe me,” He tells him, I am.

Lil John’s “Get Low” fills him with both nostalgia and fear as people shout all at once, thousands of shoulders shimmying to the music.

“Are you alright?” Alex asks.

“He’s _fine_ , dear!” Pez calls from a nearby huddle. June’s talking to a White House intern, and Nora’s chatting up Spider-Man girl. “He’s just been to far too many school dances, and seen far too many teenagers dry-hump to this song.”

Alex gasps. “You just weren’t going to tell me about such a _formative_ event in every American coming-of-age scenario? Mister Fox, I am _wounded_.” He says dramatically, and Henry can only gawk when Nora yanks him away, spins him around, and starts grinding with abandon.  
  


A few drinks, and songs later, Henry starts getting into it, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alex smile so hard; there are fireworks in his eyes.

“Fuck it _up, vato!_ ” He exclaims, and Henry’s laughing, finally releasing his inhibitions.

As midnight draws near, Alex starts directly drinking from a bottle of Moët and Chandon. He makes eye contact with Henry, hand wrapped delicately around the neck of the bottle, lips curled around the mouth of it in an absolutely fiendish way.

Henry doesn’t want to know what he’d do if they were in a quiet room together.

Everything is loud and messy and beautiful. It’s not overwhelming and angry, like Christmas was; Henry’s always loved these parties. The laughter, the music, the glitter— he feels like he’s been dropped in the middle of _The Great Gatsby_.

After a few minutes, he decides to get some fresh air, standing in the snow beneath the soothing shade of a tree. It’s sobering, as he peers up to the sky, trying to find proper constellations, breath a visible steam as it leaves his parted lips.

“What are you doing out here?” Alex asks, making his way up to him. “All alone?”

“Looking for Orion.” He explains, casting his gaze back up towards the sky.

“You must be fairly bored with the party if you’ve decided to come out here and stare at the clouds.” Alex points out, chuckling.

“‘M not bored,” He mumbles in response. “What are you doing out here, hmm? Don’t you have some swooning crowds to enchant, Prince Charming?”

Alex snorts. “Says America’s golden boy.”

“Hardly,” Henry grimaces. Alex’s hand brushes up against his, and his expression neutralizes as warmth shoots through his body.

“You didn’t really answer my question, though.” He points out and Henry sighs.

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” He asks rhetorically, head thumping against the tree as he leans back. “Sometimes it’s just a bit too much for me.”

Alex is quiet for a moment, before speaking up.

“D’you ever wonder what it would be like to be an anonymous person out there?” He asks. “Like, if your mum weren’t the president, and you were just some regular bloke, who would you be?”

“A writer.” Henry breathes, looking to Alex, every inch of him glowing. “I’d be an author.”

Alex hums. “I’d be a politician.” He admits. “And a damned good one at that.” 

“Not exactly ideal for either of us, is it?” Henry laughs, dry and bitter.

“Nope— military’s my family business.” Alex says, and he can’t imagine Alex in the armed forces; it feels wrong. “I’d probably date more, too.”

Henry laughs again. “Right, because I imagine you have _such_ a hard time dating.”

Alex shrugs. “It’s harder than it looks.”  
  


“You’re not exactly lacking in options.”

“It’s not that at all, it’s just—“ Alex sighs, turning to Henry, facing him dead on. “I have been very heavily dissuaded from pursuing certain options. The most appealing ones.”

Henry wonders if Alex is really saying what he thinks he’s saying.

“Come again?”

“I have... _people_ , who interest and entertain me greatly.”

Henry’s mouth feels like cotton. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You truly don’t?” Alex asks, grimacing.

“I—“ The more Henry considers it, the less probable it seems. “I really don’t.”

Alex is silent for a moment, before sighing.

“Christ, you are as thick as it gets,” He mumbles, soft, cold hands framing Henry’s face as he pulls him in and kisses him.

Henry’s certain that he’s dreaming as he tries to process the fact that Alexander’s lips are on his, delighting in the gentle scrape of velvet against his cheeks.

His brain is swimming hard to keep up, adding up teenage grudges and wedding cakes, and by all means, he’s definitely not complaining, but how on earth did he get here?

Alex’s mouth is pleasantly soft.

He tests leaning into the kiss, and Alex’s mouth slides and opens against his, rewarding him. Alex’s tongue brushes against his, and it sends electricity up his spine. It outdoes every drunken fling and one-night stand throughout college; this is different. This is groundbreaking. He pushes a hand into Alex’s feathery, thick curls, grasping them at the root. Alex makes a very un-princely noise at that; Henry reckons that he liked it. 

Just as soon as it’s started, it’s over, and Alex is cursing, wide eyed, and apologetic. He spins on his heel, dress shoes crunching in the snow as he practically runs back inside the Residence. 

Before Henry can grasp his bearings, he’s gone.

“ _Oh_ ,” He breathes, faint, touching a hand to his lips. “ _My God_.”


	5. Five

Henry is _definitely_ not thinking about the kiss.

He’s not thinking about the Earth-shattering passion, the sheer desperation as their lips glided together, the taste of sweet champagne on his tongue as he inhaled every last breath that Alexander had let out. He’s not thinking of soft, delicate hands framing his face, or the fistful of thick, dark curls he’d held in his hand. He’s not thinking about it.

Correction: it is the only thing he’s thought about for days, now.

He had tried to find Alex inside, but he was already long gone by the time he’d made it inside, as was June, Nora, and all of their bodyguards. 

There’s no way he can distract himself; he tries listening in on his mother’s meetings, but he can’t focus, and Shaan promptly bans him from the West Wing. He makes a valiant attempt at writing, but it usually ends with him staring at a blank journal page or computer document with his cheek in the palm of his hand.

Beneath it all, there’s the Prince of England kissing him under a linden tree in the garden, moonlight shining in his hair and dancing across his skin in little, bright bursts, and it sets Henry on fire inside. His soul? His loins? His heart? He has yet to determine which burns the most. 

He hasn’t told anyone yet, not even Bea or Martha. He signed an NDA; is he even allowed to tell anyone? Is this one of the reasons why he had to sign it? Has this always been an ulterior motive for Alex— does Alex _feel things_ for him? Why would Alex waste so much time acting like an obnoxious, pretentious prick, if this were the case?

Alex is not offering any insight whatsoever; he’s ignored all of Henry’s texts and calls, effectively ghosting him.

“Get up,” Bea orders as she struts out of her bedroom and into the sitting room by their shared hallway. She’s braided her long, brown hair, and she’s wearing her workout clothes. “You’ve been an absolute mess since the holidays. I’ve been trying to work on pieces and arrangements for my clients, but I can’t think straight when I hear you sighing every two-and-a-half minutes.” Henry shoves his phone into his pocket. She throws his jacket at him. “I’m goin’ on a run, and you’re comin’ with me.”

They’re accompanied by Cash to the Reflecting Pool, and Bea smacks him on the back to get him started. He goes slow at first, pacing himself, speeding up in small increments, ultimately sprinting after Bea when she declares that it’s a race.

“Good to see you back on planet Earth!” She laughs, screaming when Henry increases in speed.

“I hate you!” He shouts back, but it has no bite to it.

They’re on their fifth or sixth lap when things start getting introspective for Henry.

He’s always known he was gay— it’s been an absolutely unmistakable thing about him. He’s always been attracted to men, whether he knew it at one point, or not. Dated them under the radar in high school. Had regular hookups and one-night stands in college more times than he can actually definitively remember. 

One particular instance always stands out in his mind. A complete stranger at some DC bar. Dark skin and the tightest curls Henry had ever seen. A crooked, wild smile. Nice clothes. He remembers the man grazing his skin with the side of his hand. It had paralyzed him. The bar had gotten crowded, and they’d nipped off to the restroom. He remembers being slammed against the wall of a bathroom stall, screaming _yes_ and _please_ and _more_ until his lungs had given out in a fit of white-hot exhaustion. He remembers being kissed, deep and messy, and then Henry left and went home, not an NDA in sight; he hasn’t been outed yet, and he frankly doesn’t quite think he ever will.  
  


He wonders what that kiss meant to Alexander. Was he just drunk and confused? Was he just curious? Is he already sure of his sexuality, and was trying to get fresh with him? 

He doesn’t know, and has effectively decided that Alex can take the wheel on this one. If he wants something a bit more physical from Henry, why, that would be just fine. If it was only a one-time ordeal, then that’s fine, too.

He takes the time to consider where he fits into this whole narrative himself. He’s the son of southern Democrats; a late movie star and the first female President of the United States of America. He’s been marketed from day one as America’s baby, their darling golden boy. He has to maintain that image. Coming out would destroy it.  
  


Everything starts spiraling when he trips on a crack in the pavement and goes tumbling, cursing when he scrapes his knee.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Bea says, turning around and making her way to him, hoisting him up. “How’s the next galaxy over lookin’?”

“I’m fine,” Henry breathes, waving her off with panting breath. “Just a little tired,” He lies. “I’m fine.“

Bea lets it go, and he limps home by her side. He disappears to shower, slapping a children’s bandaid on his knee afterwards. 

As he dresses, he comes to two, painstakingly obvious realizations:

1\. He is very attracted to Alexander.

2\. He would very much like to kiss him again.

  
He sits at his desk, hands still wet, and pulls up the blank word document on his laptop. His mind is a rush of a billion and five thoughts, all blended into one massive fucking mess of sludge. He needs to get it all sorted.

He presses his fingers to the keyboard, typing away.

The sheer amount of work he’s able to get done is impressive. He writes about everything from high school sweethearts, to his father’s passing, to intimate entanglements, to the intense overwhelming nature of his anxiety and depression. Desire and pain seem to be trending topics in his personal narrative.

There are sheets of paper ripped from his journal and tacked to the wall above his work station; he can’t count how many cups of tea he’s had today, and decides that it would be best to not attempt to do so. He sends rough drafts to colleagues, and he soaks up their praises, as much as he loathes it. One dared to call him ‘the savior of writing’, and it made his stomach lurch. What is this, _The Last Five Years_? It sickens him. He needs a way out.

Martha is his first choice for help, naturally. The daughter of the Veep, who lives at the Naval Observatory, and his brother’s wife, he finds that his sister-in-law is a break from all the Texan socio-political chaos running rampant from his family. She’s from _Omaha_ , for crying out loud. Her favorite hobby is _knitting_.

He walks in the front door, cold air evaporating as he makes his way into the living room. The television has CNN’s Republican Primary coverage on low volume, the laptop on the coffee table playing the classic 1976 version of Stephen King’s _Carrie_ ; she appears be working on a duckling-yellow sweater.  
  


“Hi, hon.” She says without looking up, working on a sleeve. “I made lobster mac and cheese, get in the kitchen and make yourself a bowl.”

“Yes’m.” He replies, and he returns with his bowl piled high, stabbing at cheesy noodles with his fork. It’s not Texas-level comfort food, but it helps him settle down nonetheless.  
  


He eats in silence, until his anxiety tips over the edge, and he starts talking.

“Something confusing happened at the New Year’s party.” He starts, and Martha promptly sets the sweater on the table and pauses the movie, giving him her full, undivided attention.

“I’m listening.” She tells him, motioning for him to go on.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you, but,” He sighs, ripping off the bandage despite the sting. “Alexander kissed me in the garden.”

Her eyes widen, and her mouth pinches together. “I’m sorry, he did _what_?”

“ _I know_!” He exclaims through a mouthful of lobster, frustrated. “He followed me out to the garden, and we were talking, and he just grabs me by the face, and he kisses me!”

“Did you kiss back?” Martha asks, completely bewildered.

“Maybe a little!” He admits. “That’s besides the point; he’s ghosting me. He won’t return my texts or my calls— Martha, he won’t even give me the time of day after he had his tongue in my mouth! What kind of sick joke is this?” 

“Maybe he’s afraid of embracing his feelings head-on.” She offers.

“Shoot, I don’t care about his feelings. I don’t care if he wants something physical, or emotional, or if he just wants to forget about the whole damn thing.” He admits. “I just don’t want him to ignore me. I feel like we had a really good thing goin’ on, until the kiss.”

“You’ve tried contacting him?”

“Yeah, and it’s just radio silence.” He confirms.  
  


“Well, do you want my advice?” Martha asks, smiling when he nods. “Let him approach you on his own, but remind him that you’re there. Send him photos and messages— nothing too extreme— just show him what he’s missing by ghosting you.”

“That worked for you?” He asks.

“Shit, I’m married to your brother, aren’t I?” She replies, and Henry snorts.

“I love you, Martha.” He sighs.

“Naturally,” She replies playfully, brushing her hair off her shoulder. “Wanna finish this sweater with me?” She questions. “I’ll let you pick the next movie.”

“Deal.” He agrees setting down his dish and moving from the armchair to the sofa to get started on the opposing sleeve.

  
He hasn’t elicited any sort of response from Alex, even after taking Martha’s advice. He sends full-mirror photos of himself and messages about what’s going on during his days; all of them left on delivered. He feels once-jubilant hope dwindling away into horrific shame. He’s pissed— at Alex, at himself, at everyone and everything. He slouches upstairs to the West Bedrooms, dropping his bag at his door and kicking his shoes off, watching them tumble across the ugly antique carpet.

He’s been busy, between campaigning for his mother this past weekend in fucking Oklahoma of all places and working on his book. He’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. He would very much like to crawl into bed and never get back out.  
  


“Hi, cupcake.” Bea replies from a wooden cane chair in her bedroom across the hall, grimacing when she looks up from the magazine she’s reading. “You look rough.”

“Thanks, bitch.”

“Watch your _fucking_ language,” She warns, and he wants to shriek at the pure hypocrisy of it all, but he bites his tongue. She chucks the magazine at him, and he catches it with no effort. “New issue of _People_ for you. You’re on page fifteen— bestie’s on thirty-one.” 

He rolls his eyes, shutting his bedroom door a little too hard behind himself, flopping down on his bed and flipping the magazine to page fifteen.

It’s a picture of him that the press team took roughly two weeks ago, helping the Smithsonian with an exhibit on his mother’s presidential campaign. He’s explaining the story behind a _Fox For Congress ‘04_ yard sign, and there’s some write up next to it about how dedicated he is to his family legacy; it makes him look much better than he feels.

Unable to contain himself, he flips to page thirty-one, nearly swearing out loud.

The headline: _WHO IS PRINCE ALEXANDER’S MYSTERY BLONDE?_

A set of three photos: the first, Alex out at a London cafe, smiling over coffee with someone anonymous blonde woman with brown eyes and ridiculously springy curls; the second, Alex, out of focus, holding her hand as they duck behind the cafe; the third, the two of them obscured by shrubbery, Alex kissing one of the corners where her lips meet.

“What the _fuck?_ ”

There’s an article giving her name, Siobhan something, a popular daytime actress from Ireland.

He was generally pissed before, but now every last bit of anger has been focused on Alexander.

Who the _fuck_ does he think he is? Kissing Henry at his home, ghosting him for _weeks_ on end, and then running around London with some silly little actress? 

The fucking _nerve_ of this man.

How stupid did Henry have to be to let this happen, really? He was vulnerable with Alex— the man talked him out of a panic attack. They kissed, and Alex clearly liked it. How fucking selfish does someone have to be to do something like this?

The only way something gets into _People_ is if you want the world to know.

Fuck Alex.

He rolls up the magazine, and slams it in his little trash bin, angry tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. 

He remembers Pez giving him Nora’s number.  
  


Nora.

Why didn’t he think of her sooner?

He dials her number, waiting for her to pick up.

“Hello?” She asks, voice soft and Greek accent subtle.

“Hi, Nora. This is Henry Fox, and I was wondering if you could answer a question about Alex for me?” He asks, realizing he sounds a bit like a telemarketer from hell.

“Sure, shoot.” She replies, and he gnaws on his lip, apprehensive. 

“Has,” He starts, clearing his throat. “Has he expressed an interest in men to you?”

There’s clattering on the other end, and a voice that uncannily sounds like Alex, telling her to hang up.

Dear God, he’s on speakerphone. 

And Alexander is with her. 

“I’m under an NDA, so I’m afraid I can’t answer that directly.” She replies, a smile in her voice. “You’re an English major, yeah? I’m sure you’re good enough at making inferences and drawing conclusions without my help.”

“So?” He asks, hoping for a bit more.

“So, it’s up to your interpretation, Mister Fox.” There's more clattering over the line, and she laughs. “I’m afraid I have to go, now. I’m out at a late dinner with a friend. Was that all you needed?”

“Yes ma’am,” Henry replies, left with more questions than answers. “You take care, now.”

“You, too. Goodbye, Henry.”

“Goodbye.”

He hangs up, tosses his phone on the bed, and scrubs over his face.

Of all the people in the world, why him?


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️ WARNING: NSFW past this point. You have been warned

Alex can’t avoid him forever.

There’s one part of the post-cake fiasco arrangement to fulfill: Alexander’s presence at a state dinner at the end of January. England has a semi-new prime minister, and Catherine wants to talk business with him. Alex’s coming too, staying in the Residence as a courtesy.

He smooths out the lapels on his tux and hovers close to Bea as esteemed guests come rolling in, waiting at the north entrance near the photography line. He’s wringing his hands, but he just can’t stop himself. Martha’s got a smug little grin on her face, but she’s keeping quiet. Good. He’s not ready to tell Bea about what happened yet; that’s irreversible. He’d never hear the end of it. He needs to be sure of their footing on this whole situation first.

Alexander enters stage right.

His suit is black, sleek and timeless and the epitome of elegance. Henry wants to rip the fabric right off his back.

His face is neutral and reserved, then downright ghastly when he sees Henry in the entrance hall. His steps falter momentarily, as if he’s considering fleeing the White House. Henry’s not above chasing after him at this point. He resumes walking up the steps, and—

“Alright, photos.” Shaan hisses over Henry’s shoulder.

“Right,” Alex confirms, and Henry has never wanted to punch anybody more. He’s agitated with himself for swooning over the way vowels sound in his melodic, completely unique accent. He, unfortunately, has a thing for it. After weeks with no contact, his bar is underground.

“Hey,” Henry says, feigning pleasantries, squeezing Alex’s hand far too tight, smile fake and sweet as cameras flash around them. “Thank you so much for coming. Hopefully, it’ll be the last time I ever have to see your sorry face.”

“Don’t.” Alex says, voice low, warning. It affects Henry in the most shameful of ways. 

“We need to talk.” He hisses in response. He’s tempted to spit on his shoes, but Shaan is practically shoving them into a friendly formation, and more photos are taken until Henry is pulled away with the rest of his family to the State Dining Room while Alex is hauled into photo ops with the prime minister.

The evening’s entertainment is a British indie rocker who looks quite a bit like a root vegetable and is popular with people in Henry’s age bracket for reasons he cannot even begin to comprehend. Alex is seated with the prime minister, and Henry watches him, seething, chewing his food like it’s personally wronged him. There are moments however, little blips, where Alex will catch his eye, and it makes his ears go warm before he ducks his head down, pretending to take great interest in the rice pilaf.

How _dare_ Alex come into _his_ home, a vision of otherworldly beauty, drink red wine with the prime minister, and act like he didn’t slip Henry the tongue before ghosting him for a month.

“Nora,” He whispers across the table to her; why she’s sat so close to him, he doesn’t know. He’s glad that Bea’s off talking to some Doctor Who actress right now— no way for her to be in his business.

“Yes, dearest?” She replies, whisper-shouting across the table.

“Can you get Alex away from his table?”

She gives him a fiendish smile. “Diabolic scheme of seduction?”

Henry huffs. “Yeah. Sure, whatever works best.”

“I’m on it.” She replies, rising up and sashaying over to where Alexander is sitting.

He heads for the back wall of the room, where a few PPO officers are stationed.

“Chen,” He says quickly. Alex had told him quite a bit about Amy; he tends to see her as a second older sister. “I’m gonna need your help.”

“Where’s the threat?” She asks immediately.

“No, no, not like that.” He promises her with a smile, grabbing her wrist. “I just need to get Prince Alexander alone for a few minutes.”

She blinks. “I don’t follow.”

“I need to speak with him privately.”

“I can accompany the both of you outside if you need to speak with him, but I’ll have to talk with your security first.”

“No,” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He glances back over his shoulder to confirm that Alex is where he left him, being aggressively talked at by Nora. “I need him _alone_.”

Something flashes across Amy’s face. “Best I can do is the Red Room, any further is a no-go.”

“Time?”

“Five min—“

“That’s good enough for me.” He tells her, stalking over to the ornamental chocolate display, where Nora has lured Alex with the promise of profiteroles. He slides between the two of them.

“Hi,” He says. Nora grins evilly, Alex is glaring daggers at him. “Sorry to interrupt. I believe we’re overdue for a one-on-one international relations summit.” He grabs Alexander by the elbow, yanking him away.

“Do you _mind_?” Alex hisses.

“Shut the _hell_ up.” Henry grunts through gritted teeth, enraged, briskly leading him away from the tables, where people are far too busy intermingling to notice him frog-marching an heir to the throne out of the dining room.

They reach the doors, and there’s Amy. She’s hesitant, hand on the knob.

“This isn’t an assassination attempt, is it?” She asks, confirming.

Henry shrugs. “Anything can happen in five minutes.”

She snorts, opening the door just enough to let them in, and Henry hauls Alexander into the Red Room with him.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Alex asks, face lighting up in anger.

“No,” Henry retorts, and Henry sees something else on the prince’s face. He looks shocked. Good. “You listen to me, you good for nothing, uptight, prissy little _bitch_. Who the hell do you think you _are_ —“ He starts on his diatribe, before he’s seized by his tie and collar, back shoved against a wall.

“Henry.” Alex says, full of authority.

Helpless, and a little anxious, Henry replies. “Yes?”

“Do shut up already.” Alex tells him, crushing their mouths together. 

Henry’s too shocked to immediately respond, his mouth falling open in shock rather than invitation. After taking a moment to process what’s going on, he gets with the program, kissing back with hunger and vigor. It’s everything he’s been craving for the past month; it feels better than what he remembered. God, why haven’t they been doing this the entire time?

“Wait,” He finds himself saying, breaking off. Alex looks animalistic; there’s a glint in his eyes that makes knots materialize in Henry’s stomach. “Should we—“

“What?” Alex practically growls.

“I mean, uhm, should we, I dunno, slow down?” He asks, cringing so hard that one eye closes. “Get dinner first, or something?”

“We just had dinner,” Alex says pointedly, hands wandering aimlessly, touching every inch of Henry.

“I know,” He says, heart dropping. “I meant, I just thought—“

“Stop thinking.” Alex commands.

“Yes,”

Without a care in the world, Alexander knocks the candelabra off the table. Henry’s pushed onto it, sitting with his back against a portrait of Alexander Hamilton. He spreads his legs readily, Alex crowding between them, grabbing him by the hair and wrenching his head back, pulling him into another frantic kiss.

They're really going at it now, wrinkling and wrecking one-another’s suits. Alex has Henry’s bottom lip between his teeth, and it makes Henry’s head drop back and thud against the wall, the portrait’s frame rattling.

Alexander is at his throat, and Henry rests somewhere between aroused and angry. God, if only he hadn’t been so dense at Rio— they could have been doing this for years at this point. It’s all white-hot, and Henry’s on fire, burning brighter with every touch.

He gives as good as he’s getting it, hooking a knee around the back of Alex’s thigh for leverage. Royal sensibilities and chivalry have been long abandoned as teeth scrape against his skin. He loves the quiet storm inside of Alexander, how his eyes crackle like thunder, his smile a flash of blinding lightning, washing over Henry like heavy summer rain.

Alex drops a hand onto his thigh, squeezing firmly. He pushes up, up, up, and Henry moans, hand slamming down over his, digging his nails in.

“Time!” Amy calls through a crack in the doors.

They freeze, and Alex pulls away, falling back onto his heels. They can both hear it now, bodies moving too close for comfort, wrapping up the night. Henry’s hips involuntarily buck up into Alex, making him swear.

“I’m gonna die,” Henry breathes, helpless.

“I am going to kill you,” Alexander tells him.

“Yeah,” Henry agrees. “You are.”

Alex takes an unsteady step back. “People will be coming in here soon.” He says, reaching down and scooping up the candelabra, placing it back on the table.

Henry stands, wobbly as a newborn fawn, and it hits him that he is achingly hard. 

“You look— _fuck_ ,” Alex swears, fussing with his hair, smoothing it down, fingertips brushing against Henry’s skin.

Henry clamps his eyes shut, fumbling with his shirt tail, humming “America the Beautiful” beneath his breath.

“What are you doing?” Alex asks.

“ _God_ , I’m trying to make it—“ he gestures inelegantly to the front of his pants. “Go _away_.”

Alex looks down, then looks back up, and—

Henry makes a very pathetic noise in the back of his throat, nails digging into the table he’s still braced against.

“This is what we are going to do,” Alex starts. “So as to not ravish you in front of very important individuals, I am going to have to ask you to keep your distance for the remainder of the evening.”

“Alright,” Henry replies, yanking him forward by his tie and batting his hand away. “ _You_ are going to come to the East Bedroom at eleven o’ clock tonight, and I am going to do filthy things to you, and if you ever, and I mean ever, ghost me again, I will ruin you. Am I clear?”

Alex gives him a look that has him biting back a moan, and replies with a husky, “Crystal.”

This is the worst idea that Henry has ever had, and he is losing it.

It’s currently 10:48, and he is pacing.

The only thing he’s taken off so far is his jacket— he’s decided that it would be best to keep everything else on. It’s been a while for him; he doesn’t quite know the dress code for inviting an ex-rival-turned-friend over for sex. Especially when that friend is the Prince of England.

There’s a single lamp on, in the corner by the couch, bathing the cream-colored walls of his room in warm golden light. He’s moved everything off his writing desk, and in a fit of anxiety, made his bed at least three times. He peers over to the ancient fireplace, the carved details on the mantel almost as old as America itself. It’s no Kensington Palace, but it looks alright.

He can do this; he took his Diazepam.

He can do this.

He _wants_ to do it, really. He’s sure of this. He closes his eyes, dragging his fingers across the cool wood of his desk, grain coarse against his skin. His mind flashes to Alex, hot breath fanning out across his neck, teeth digging into his flesh. It makes him shiver.

Alex, the prince. The boy in his bed.

This is up to him, he reminds himself, this is Alexander’s game. He is to remain neutral.

There’s a knock at his door. 10:54.

He opens the door, and looks Alex over, just taking him in.

Alex is absolutely stunning, half royalty, half god, or so Henry is lead to believe. Red wine is lingering on his lips, and the sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to his elbows.

_God, those arms._

Alex smirks, eyes alight with excitement.

“You’re early,” Henry points out.

“I am,” He replies, smiling now.

“Get here okay?” Henry asks, gnawing at his bottom lip.

“A secret service agent was more than willing help,” Alex replies. “Cassius, I believe.”

Henry beams. “Get yourself in here.”

Alex smiles, his grin taking up a good portion of his face. It isn’t guarded; it’s whole and pure and real. Henry hooks his fingertips behind his elbow, and Alex follows his lead, his dress shoes between Henry’s socked feet. Henry’s breath ghosts over his lips, their noses brushing, and he smiles into their kiss.

Henry reaches out, shutting and locking the door, and Alex slides a hand up the nape of his neck, cradling it. His kisses are soft, now. Deliberate. Measured. He’s pulled in by the sway of his waist, their bodies pressed flush. Henry kisses back, but is mostly complicit in whatever Alex wants to do.

“How you want to do this?” Alex asks, breaking away.

“Get on the couch,” Henry replies, grabbing him by his collar and shoving him back.

Alexander’s smirk is smoldering as he beckons Henry forth with two fingers.

Henry descends upon him, straddling his lap as he frantically undoes the buttons of his shirt.

“You haven’t spoken to me in _weeks_ ,” He mutters, refusing to kiss him, loving the way he squeezes his hips. He braces one hand against the back of the couch, other grazing the dip of Alex’s throat. “You went out with a _girl_.”

“It meant nothing.” Alex tells him.

“How do I know that?” He asks.

Alexander pulls him close, kissing him slow and deep before pulling away.

“But, you and Nora—“ 

“Strictly platonic; she's just insane.” Alex assures him, chuckling. “She loves starting a good rumor.”

Henry kisses him again, rough and forceful. Alex squeezes his ass, and he moans.

“You were so _jealous_ ,” Alex says, voice gravelly and low. “You _want_ me.”

“Yes, you little shithead. I want you. And if you don’t stop teasing me, then I’m gonna take what I want from you.”

“Do it.” Alex dares, and Henry stands, pulling him along to the bed. Being on the receiving end of royal authority is such a fucking turn-on.

He grinds down into Alex’s lap, and is met with half-hardness, cursing against his mouth. He seems to rut senselessly for hours before Alex’s hips are surging up to meet his in slow, overwhelming rolls.

Wordlessly, after shoving Alex against the pillows, Henry pulls off of him, making his way down the bed. He rubs at his bulge through his trousers, looking at him just a bit too innocently for their current activities. 

“Can I take them off?” He asks.

Alex nods, pressing into his touch.

“Underwear, too?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t waste any time, unbuttoning his pants, letting Alex lift his hips as he pulls it all off, his dick springing free.

Henry could wax poetic about it. It’s one of the biggest, thickest, prettiest dicks he’s ever seen, and he has seen quite a few.

He leans forward first, sucking a hickey into the tender flesh of Alexander’s neck. He knows that rule number one of clandestine hookups with political figureheads is that you’re not supposed to leave a mark, but he couldn’t care less.

“Get to work,” Alex commands, teasing.

“Are you _always_ this bossy?” Henry asks, giggling as he leans in to kiss him, messy and slow, before making his way back down. 

He starts with slow strokes, maintaining eye contact with Alex, who looks absolutely bewitching right now, eyes consumed by the haze of lust, teeth furiously working at the right corner of his bottom lip.

He brings his hand to his mouth, spits on it, then goes right back to work, hand speeding up in increments.

“Oh my fucking _God_ ,” Alex rasps, desperate, and it makes him smile and speed up. “Fuck,” He continues, and Henry can see that he’s trembling. “I can’t believe— _God_ , you are the _most_ insufferable goddamn bastard on the face of the planet, do you know that— _fuck_ — you’re infuriating, you’re the worst, you’re—“

“Do you ever stop _talking_?” He asks, watching him raptly when Alex looks back down at him, smiling. “Such a _dirty_ little mouth on you.” He keeps eye contact and rhythm, and watches something change in Alex’s eyes.

“Wait,” Alex says suddenly, clutching at the bedsheets. Henry withdraws immediately. Maybe he’s having second thoughts. “I mean, _yes,_ obviously, oh my _God,_ but, if you keep doing that I’m going to—“ His breath catches, and it’s music to Henry’s ears. “It’s, that’s just— that’s not _allowed_ before I get to see you naked.”

How precious.

Henry tilts his head, smirking. “Alrighty.”

He lets Alex flip them over and pull off his pants and underwear, lets him climb the length of his body until they’re eye level.

“Hello,” He says, and Henry giggles, cupping his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks. A perfect fit.

“Hi,” Henry whispers in return, humming when Alex leans down to peck him on the mouth.

“Do you consent to taking things a bit further?” He asks.

Henry nods. “I do.” One hand slides down and leverages Alex’s leg up so they meet again at their most sensitive point, and they both groan. It sends shockwaves through him.

He finds the place where two walls meet across the room, and fixates on it as Alexander’s lips travel the expanse of his body. He realizes what Alex intends when he’s mouthing at his chest, and it makes his heart skip a beat. His solar plexus, his stomach, and the space just under it.

“I, uhm,” Alex starts, sounding sheepish. “I’ve never actually done this before.”

“Alex,” Henry starts, reaching down to pet at his curls. “You don’t have to.” He tells him, not wanting him to feel pressured to do anything. “I’m—“

“No, I _want_ to,” Alex insists, placing a hand on his stomach, grounding him. “I just need you to tell me if it’s awful.”

Henry can’t believe this is real, speechless. “Okay. Of course.”

He thinks back to seeing Alex in his glasses and house shoes at Kensington Palace in the middle of the night, and never once did he think that he would have the Prince of Wales on his bed, naked, pulling his thighs apart—

Alex might not have done this before, but _fuck_ , is he enthusiastic. His mouth is greedy, not at all shy when it comes to using his tongue. He sweeps a hand into his hair, grabbing a fistful of curls. He looks down and is met with burning eye contact. His lip catches between his teeth as he surveys his gorgeous face.

“ _Fucking eyelashes_ ,” He groans, dropping his head back against the pillows. His back arches up of the mattress, and he lets out a litany of swears as Alex’s bobs his head. It’s sloppy, and messy, and noisy, but it’s good. So, so good.

He finishes, shaking and moaning desperately, and to his surprise, Alex swallows. He wastes no time, hauling him up and kissing him, melting into it, tasting himself on his tongue.

“Not awful?” Alex asks between kisses, smiling.

“Definitely adequate,” Henry breathes. “Roll over.”

Alex complies, and Henry’s kissing him again, much rougher this time. 

He returns the favor, hungry, on a mission, and he delights in the way Alex gasps and moans and swears to high heaven. His moans are loud, like a symphony in full swing. The words he mutters beneath his breath, namely sweetheart and motherfucker are soft, and it almost sounds like he’s praying.

He knows he’s good; he can tell by Alex’s eyes rolling back into his head and the drool streaming from the corner of his mouth.

He lets Alexander come on his face, an eventful end to a drawn out romp. He wipes down his face with a tissue before disposing of it, pressing a sticky kiss to his thigh.

He shifts up the mattress, moving to the pillows, and nuzzles into the hollow of Alex’s throat. The prince makes a vague noise of approval, and his arms grapple around Henry’s waist, holding him close.

“Hmm,” Henry hums, giggling as their noses catch. “I’d’ve done this ages ago if I’d known this’s all it takes to shut you up.”

“Fuck you.” Alex mumbles, pulling him into a messy kiss.

Through his brain fog, Henry can tell that there’s something different about them now. Was this just a one time thing? Was Alex just curious? Is he still curious? Will this become a routine thing?

Does Alex have feelings for him?

Alexander laughs, then moans, into his mouth, and he gently pulls away, rolling onto his back, jaw flexing.

“Hey,” Alex whispers, poking him in the arm. “There’s no need to start freaking out.”

“‘M not freakin’ out.” He replies, enunciating his words.  
  


He feels a hand trailing down his chest. “I had fun,” Alex says, hesitating. “It was fun. You had fun, right?”

“Right,” Henry confirms, and he can tell that it does something to him.

“Right. So, we can do this again, whenever you please.” Alex tells him, like Henry needs his permission to desire him. “It doesn’t have to change anything between us, you know. We can be what we were before, just... with blowjobs, I suppose.” He chuckles.

Strictly physical.

Okay.

Henry can do that.

He covers his eyes with one hand. “Right.” He pauses again, removing his hand and turning to face him. “I’m gay, by the way.”

“Good to know,” Alex replies smoothly.

“Are you?” Henry asks.

Alexander snorts. “No, uhm, I’m not gay.”

His reaction throws Henry off his rhythm so hard that he decides not to push it.

Alex’s fingertips brush over his jaw. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You should probably be gettin’ back to your room, lest you want the PPOs to lock the place down and steal you from my virgin bed.” He says, and it makes Alex laugh.

“Something makes me doubt that you’re a virgin.” He says, chuckling.

“Speculating about my virtue, immediately after deflowering me? You sir, are cruel.”

“Alas, I admit it.” Alex responds, his nails scratching along the insides of his thighs, smirking as Henry quivers. “Would you like it if I stayed for another round?”

Henry freezes up. “That would be wonderful, but you should really be getting back,” He says, strained.

Alex’s face drops, and it makes him feel strange; upset. “I see, I suppose I’ll be on my way, then.”  
  


He tells himself that this is the best option for the two of them as he watches Alex dress himself— just warm mouths and touch and go. Emotions would ruin it all.

Mutually satisfying sexual experiences don’t make a relationship. They're not going to spoon and cuddle or eat breakfast together; the thought makes his stomach churn.

Alex is hovering over his bed, awkward as can be.

Henry sighs. “C’mere,” He tells him, sitting up.

Alex makes his way over, and he guides him into a kiss. Slow. Sweet. Languid. 

He pulls away after a few minutes, and laughs. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

Alex smiles. “Goodnight, Henry.”

And, with that, grinning like an idiot, Alexander is gone, taking a piece of Henry with him.

“You’re doin’ _what?_ ”

It’s only been two weeks since the state dinner. Two weeks of wanting Alex both on top of and under him as soon as possible, and making this obvious with texts, images, videos, and even one insomnia-fueled FaceTime call. Bea looks at him like she wants to hurl his phone into the Potomac.

“An invitation-only charity polo match this weekend,” Alex says once more over the phone, sounding tired. “It’s in...” He pauses, probably checking one of Zahra’s itineraries. “Greenwich, Connecticut, I believe. $10,000 a seat, and terribly pretentious, but I can have you added to the list, if you’d like.”

Shaan eyes him funny when he nearly fumbles his tea all over the south entryway. “Fucking Christ. That is horrendous, what’re you raisin’ money for, the top one percent’s state-of-the-art war fallout shelters?” He asks, snorting. He presses his hand over the mouthpiece, shouting over to Shaan. “Clear my schedule for the weekend.” He uncovers the phone. “You can add me to the list or whatever, but my schedule is jam-packed. I make _no_ promises.”

“You’re ditching the fundraiser this weekend to go to a _polo match_ in _Connecticut_?” Bea asks from his doorway later, almost starting another mug of tea from his hands.

“I’m trying to keep up a geopolitical international relations ruse, Beatrice.” He replies, sipping his Earl Grey whilst typing at his computer. Is he writing about his latest cyber sexcapade with Alexander? Perhaps, but he’s doing it very vaguely.

“There’s _fan fiction_ about y’all, Henry!”

“I know, Pez sends it to me,” He remarks dryly. Another sip of tea. “The fact that people think I’m into shibari is— well— it’s an interesting perspective.” He says, laughing when she sputters uncontrollably.

“Give it a rest!” She exclaims. “Who am I supposed to go with?”

“The crown wants me to be there,” He lies through his teeth. “Philip would be more than happy to accompany you, I’m sure.”

She groans again, and he cackles.

He’s in his J. Crew best at the Greenwich Polo Club, and he’s wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Women are wearing taxedermied birds on their hats. High school baseball didn’t prepare him for anything like this.

Alexander on horseback is nothing new. Alexander in full polo gear— the helmet, snug white pants, tall leather boots, polo sleeves capped right at his bulging biceps, the leather gloves— it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. He figures it should be boring. It should not stoke arousal in the pit of his stomach to see him in a quite frankly, ridiculous, sports uniform.

But Alex is urging the horse across the field with his plush, hard thighs, ass bouncing in the saddle, arms stretching and flexing when he swings— it’s ruined him.

He’s on fire. 

It’s February in Connecticut, and Henry has his coat draped over his lap, still sweating as he shifts around in his chair.

Alex is _good_ , too, his boots digging into the stirrups for leverage, conjuring up images of his calves in Henry’s mind. He remembers pinning his thighs open just like that to swallow him down. Sweat is dripping down Alex’s brow and onto his throat. Henry wants to lick it up. This realization only horrifies and arouses him further.

He wants him.

Right now.

The match ends after what feels like aeons, and Henry knows that if he doesn’t have Alex’s dick in his mouth soon, he is going to lose his marbles. He doesn’t care what he has to do, or who he has to scream at, to get it.

“You’re up to no good.” Amy observes when he reaches the bottom of the stands. “You look dewy.”

“I’m gonna go, uhm,” He pauses. “Say hi to Alexander.”

Amy’s face neutralizes. “No need to elaborate.”

“I’m aware of plausible deniability.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Sure,” He replies. “Mhm.”

“Enjoy your summit with the English delegation,” She tells him, flat, and Henry thanks the lord for staff NDAs.

He books it to the stables, buzzing, knowing Alexander is close. Thick thighs, grass stains on tight pants, the sport is mind-numbing, why does Alex make it look so hot—

“Whoops—“

He stops himself from colliding with Alex at the last minute, who has rounded the corner of the stables.

“Oh, hello.”

They stare at each other, fifteen days removed from swearing at the ceiling and warm mouths, unsure of how to proceed. Alexander is still in full polo wear, gloves and all, and Henry doesn’t quite know if he wants to brain him with a polo mallet, or give him brain until he can’t think anymore.

Decisions, decisions.

Alex smiles. “I was actually coming to find you.”

“Here I am,” He replies, glancing over his shoulder. “Cameras at three o’ clock.”

“Right,” Alex replies, going rigid. He’s still damp, and there’s still red in his cheeks from exertion. He’ll look like Apollo in the photos when they go to press, Henry being is lowly Icarus, dumbfounded by his radiance and naive enough to get close.

He smiles, knowing they’ll sell.

“Don’t you need to show me something?” He asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Alex raises his brows. “Now?”

“I drove nearly five hours up here, I go back in an hour, so I don’t know when else I’ll get to see it.” He replies.

He seems to get with the program then, switching to a stage smile and laughter, cuffing Alex on the shoulder. “Yes, right. Come this way.”

He turns on the heel of his boot and leads the way to the back of the stables, veering right into a doorway, Henry right behind him. The room is small and windowless, fragrant with leather polish, stained wood from floor to ceiling, walls lined with heavy saddles, riding crops, bridles, and reins.

“I know what you’re thinking; ‘ _what in the rich-white-people-sex-dungeon-hell is this?’_ ” Alex jokes awkwardly, and Henry sets his coat on a bench.

“I know what a tack room is,” Henry replies, impatient. “Farm boy, remember?”

“I—“ Alex starts.

“Shush.” Henry stops him, pulling him in for a lip-bruising kiss. It’s solid. Hot. Reminds Henry of what he’s here to do. His hands move around a lot, trying to figure out where he should grope first.

“You look fucking _ridiculous_ ,” He groans, shoving Alex back and giving him a once-over.

“Do you want me to?” Alex puts a foot up on the bench to undo his knee pads.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Henry says, shocking himself with his wild, low tone. “Good God,” He breathes, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

Alex frowns. “I’m confused.”

“As am I,” Henry replies. “I just— this is _really_ doin’ it for me,” He explains, not even embarrassed as he moves closer, dropping to his knees and undoing Alexander’s belt, yanking his trousers and underwear down with no warning, his cock no longer restricted.

“Oh, God.” Alex says.

“Uh-huh.” Henry agrees, taking him into his mouth as far as he can go.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Alex repeats, with energy this time.

Henry bobs his head and swallows around him like it’s what he was made to do. He looks up, and Alex’s face is flushed and shining with new sweat, his lips parted. It pains Henry to look at him— athlete’s focus, the dressings of aristocracy all laid out for him. He’s being watched; Alexander’s pupils are blown wide, and he’s watching right on back, getting off on the way he stares.

It’s fast and dirty and hot and heavy and Alex is cursing— another turn on, he’s just learned, loving the way it’s interrupted with words of praise, like ‘ _that’s good_ ’ and ‘ _just like that’_ , adoring the way his accent gets stronger when he’s vulnerable, a gloved thumb wiping saliva from the corner of his mouth.

As soon as he swallows, he’s pushed back into the bench, and Alexander puts his knee pads to good use.

“I still can’t deal with you.” He mumbles, slumped against him, exhausted, forehead resting on his shoulder.

He feels something soft— a kiss— in his hair.

“Most can’t.” Alexander replies, rubbing his back. They kiss for longer than he’s willing to admit after he regains his strength.

They sneak out quietly, and Henry feels his hand on his shoulder at the gate where the SUV waits, presses his palm into his moleskin coat and the knotted muscle there.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you at Kensington anytime soon?” Alex asks, and he smiles.

“Not if I can help it.” He jokes, smirking. “That place is trash.”

“ _Oi_ ,” Alex says, grinning now. “That’s disrespect of the crown, that is. Insubordination. I’ve thrown men in the dungeons for less.”

“Sounds like a good time, bring the ropes and chains and we’ll really be swingin’.” He says with a wink, walking towards the car after he catches Alex’s shocked expression.

**Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 3/3/20 7:32 PM  
to A

_His Royal Highness Prince Alex of Whatever:_

_Please, spare me the pain of learning your actual title._

_Will you be attending the fund-raiser in Paris for rainforest conservation this weekend?_

_Henry_  
_First Son of Your Former Colony_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 3/4/20 2:14AM  
to Henry

_Henry, First Son of Discount England,_

_First, it’s disgustingly inappropriate of you to intentionally botch my title. I could have you hunted for sport for that kind of lèse-majesté. Fortunately for you, I value your company._

_Secondly, no, I will not be in attendance at the Paris fund-raiser; I have prior engagement. You shall have to find another foreign heir to accost in an empty hallway._

_Regards,  
His Royal Highness Prince Alexander of Wales_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 3/4/20 2:27 AM  
to A 

_Huge Raging Headache Prince Alex of Who Even Cares:_

_It is astounding you’re able to function, much less sit and write emails, with the royal scepter and crown jewels shoved up your ass. From what I’m able to recall, you don’t particularly mind being “accosted”._

_There won’t be anyone of interest there, anyhow. Please, tell me more of your “prior engagement”._

_Henry  
First Son of Abhorring Fund-raisers _

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 3/4/20 2:32AM  
to Henry

_Henry, First Son of Blowing Off Responsibilities,_

_I’ve been sent to a summit in Germany to act like I have the slightest idea as to how wind power works. Above all else, I’m getting lectured by old men in lederhosen and posing for photos with windmills. Apparently, the monarchy has decided that we want to care about sustainable energy, or at least make it look like we do. A damned romp._

_Re: fund-raiser guests, I once thought the same about you._

_Regards,  
Harangued Royal Highness_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 3/4/20 2:34 AM  
to A

_Horrific Revolting Heir:_

_I’m quite glad that I’ve been able to sway your opinion on me. One might even say that you enjoy my company. Especially when I do that thing with my tongue that you like so much._

_Henry  
First Son of Taboo Late Night Emails_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 3/4/20 2:37AM  
to Henry 

_  
Henry, First Son of Inappropriately Timed Emails When I’m In Early Morning Meetings,_

_Are you trying to get fresh with me?_

_Regards,  
Handsome Royal Heretic_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 3/4/20 2:41 AM  
to A

_His Royal Horniness:_

_If I were trying to get fresh with you, surely you’d know it._

_For Example: I’ve been fantasizing about you shoving your cock down my throat all week, and I was hoping a dream could become a reality in Paris._

_I also don’t speak French often, but I can if you’d like._

_Henry,  
First Son of Plaisir Oral_

**Re: Paris?**  
——————————————————————  
**A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 3/4/20 2:43AM  
to Henry

_Henry, First Son of Making Me Choke On My Coffee in Said Early Morning Meeting,_

_I hate you. Trying my hardest to get out of Germany._

_x_


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My country is going through a terrifying election so here’s a 10k chapter

Alex does, in fact, get out of Germany. He meets Henry near a crowd of crêpe-eating tourists by Place du Terte, and makes a comment about his blazer, smile wicked. They stumble back to his hotel after two bottles of wine, and Henry finds himself sinking to his knees, Alex peering down at him with soft brown eyes, pupils completely blown, and there aren’t enough words in the English language to describe how it makes Henry feel; a dream that’s come to life.

He’s so drunk, and Alex’s hands are soft and domineering, and it’s all so fucking breathtakingly gorgeous that he forgets to send Alex back to his own hotel. It slips his mind that Alex doesn’t stay the night with him. So, just this once, he does. 

In the middle of the night, he feels Alexander’s knuckles brush against the ridges of his spine. He wants to shift, curve back into that casual, intimate touch, but he knows that Alex thinks he must be asleep. He drifts off sometime later, wondering what on earth he must be thinking about.

The next morning, room service brings up crusty baguettes, juicy blackberries, flaky, sticky tarts filled with fat apricots, and an issue of Le Monde that’s fresh off the press. Alex presses tender kisses to Henry’s neck and plays with his hair as he reads aloud from the paper; it makes him go red when Alex calls it sexy. 

When he’s left, Henry finds the stationery on the night stand, _Fromagerie Nicole Barthélémy_. Leaving your clandestine hookup directions to a Parisian cheese shop. He has to give it to Alex; it is remarkably, disgustingly ostentatious. The media will eat it up.

Later, Shaan texts him a screencap of a _Buzzfeed_ article about his “best bromance ever” with Alex. A grand mix of photos: the state dinner, a few shots of them grinning outside the stables at Greenwich, one picked up from a French girl’s Twitter of Alex lounging in his chair at a tiny cafe table whilst Henry finishes off the bottle of red between them.

Beneath it, words of praise from Shaan: **good work son, keep it up.**

This is how they’re going to do this, then. The world is going to continue thinking that they’re best friends, and they’re going to play the part.

Alright.

It is an objective fact that he should pace himself; they are very strictly physical. Henry put that barrier in place himself, and Alexander has been more than respectful. But Alex makes him laugh when he comes, and texts him things like **i have been inconsolably horny all day just thinking about the veins and the roughness of your hands, and if i don’t have them on me soon, i might just go mad.** It hurts Henry, really.

He decides not to think too hard; they are physical, physical, physical, and won’t ever be anything else. Normally, they would only cross paths a few times a year; it takes extensive schedule editing and quite a bit of sweet talk from their respective teams to see each other as often as their bodies demand. Henry lets a few events slip through the cracks— he makes Alexander wait for it.

Their birthdays are less than three weeks apart, which means for most of March, Henry is twenty-three, whilst Alex is twenty-one. God, that makes him feel ancient. He happens to have a voter registration drive at the end of March, and after texting Alex about it, he receives a response around fifteen minutes later: **rescheduled visit to New York for charity donations to this week. will be in the city with a few new ideas.**

Photographers are all around them when they meet in front of the Met, so they’re clasping hands and wearing identical press smiles when Alex says, through rows of perfect teeth, “I want you alone. Now.”

They’re much more careful when they’re in the States, so they go up to the hotel room one at a time, Alex through the back and flanked by Amy and some other PPO, and Henry with Cash, who grins and knows and, thankfully, says nothing at all.

There’s a lot of champagne and kissing, and smeared icing from a birthday cupcake around Alex’s mouth, Henry’s chest, Alex’s throat, and between Henry’s hips. Henry allows himself to be a bit more dominant this time, pinning Alexander’s wrists to the bed and going down on him relentlessly, and Alex is mewling and babbling and just as drunk as Henry feels, and it’s perfect. He has a foreign prince’s dick down his throat with the lights off, and it just works for them. 

It’s the last time that they see one another for weeks. After begging, teasing, and a few voice calls where they’ve done things that would bring most others to shame, Henry has been persuaded to download Snapchat. For every full-length mirror photo and hand pic, Alex sends one of himself in polo gear, sharp suits, and even one of him on a fucking yacht while Henry’s emailing his colleagues. His skin is glowing, and his collarbones are sharp, and Henry has to shut his laptop and put his head on his desk for a few good minutes after that.

It’s fine, though. Not a thing, or anything like that.

Between it all, they talk about Henry’s novel, Alexander’s idea for a nonprofit, both of their appearances. They talk about how Pez swears up and down that he’s going to marry June and spends half the time he spends with Henry rhapsodizing about her or begging Henry to ask him if she likes flowers (yes) or exotic birds (to look at, not own) or jewelry in the shape of her own face (no).

He’s surprised when Alex doesn’t leave after he sees what a bad day looks like for him. It’s so much easier to pretend he isn’t shrieking and crying through text messages, his usual mood replaced by sharp, and perhaps slightly bitter, wit. He leaves him on read for hours and days at a time as he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, only letting David into his room. Philip and Bea barge in anyways; Philip to give him a stern talking to, Bea to make sure that he showers and uses the bathroom and at the very least drinks some water. At some point, whenever his mother isn’t completely swamped with meetings and work, she comes in and lays down with him. He starts crying when he feels her shaking and feels the dampness of tears on his shirt; he doesn’t like upsetting Catherine.

Alex is there, though. He sends Henry videos of baby animals and tells him shitty jokes and checks in on him every couple of hours when his mind is blank and words don’t make a lick of sense in his fried brain. He checks in on him the way Bea does, asking him if he’s eaten anything small or if he’s drank any water or taken his medication. He tells Henry that he’s brave and that he’s proud of him. And, well. That makes Henry cry more than it should.

He finds a soft spot in the wall when he brings up the right topics.

“Listen,” Henry says, David in his lap, propped against a mountain of pillows, held down by the weight of his duvet and at least five hand-stitched quilts that Martha has gifted him over the years. “I don’t give a damn about what _Joanne_ has to say, Remus John Lupin is gay as the day’s long, and nobody can convince me otherwise.”

He knows he probably shouldn’t be getting this heated, especially not on a Thursday night— Alex is supposed to be resting up for his classes later in the day— but he just can’t help himself.

“Okay,” Alex replies, sounding awestruck. “For the record, I agree completely, but also, tell me more.”

He finds himself launching into a long-winded tirade, and Alex actually listens and occasionally provides input as he works towards his point:

“I just think that when it comes to Britain’s positive cultural landmarks, it would be nice if y’all didn’t throw your own marginalized people under the proverbial bus. People sanitize Freddie Mercury or Elton John or David Bowie, who was fuckin’ Jagger up and down Oakley Street in the seventies, I might add. It’s just not the _truth_.”

Another thing that Alex does, something that used to be annoying to him, is whip out long, historical analyses, explaining the tiniest of details for as long as he can. He’s nearly finished with his undergraduate— philosophy, politics, and economics with a history minor— and the things he tells Henry captivates him, stuns him. He knows that he’s not gay, but the sheer amount of queer history he has stored in his brain— both British and American— has Henry astounded, has him hanging on to every word. It is truly something.

It reminds him of that stabbing feeling he got in his chest the first time he’d ever read about Stonewall, the way he cried with joy over the SCOTUS decision in 2015. He’s trying desperately to catch up to Alex in the time he’s not working: Walt Whitman, the Laws of Illinois 1961, The White Night Riot, Paris is Burning. He’s tacked a photo up amongst prompts and stanzas of bad poetry above his writing desk, a man at a rally in the ‘80s in a jacket that says across the back: _IF I DIE OF AIDS— FORGET BURIAL— JUST DROP MY BODY ON THE STEPS OF THE F.D.A._

Philip’s eyes stick on it one day when he drops by from the office; he’s quit the firm to help Catherine with the re-election campaign. A bit odd to Henry, since he’s never really been into politics the way he and Bea have, but he decides it’s best not to question it.  
  


“You support that?” Philip asks, nodding towards the photo through a mouthful of falafel.

“Yeah,” Henry replies, pulse racing double-time. “What about it?”

“Nothin’.” Philip replies, putting his hands up in mocking surrender. “Just be careful with that sorta shit. Last thing we need is someone startin’ a rumor about you.”

“Is it really such a bad thing if it’s just a rumor?” He asks, and he knows he’s misspoken already.

“Is that how you wanna be perceived, Henry?” Philip asks, tension building. “As some fruity little—“  
  


“Watch your language.” Bea warns from the hallway.

“Mind your business!” He shouts back, before turning back to Henry. “Look, it’s an agree to disagree thing, just be careful, okay?”

Henry feels his heart shatter into a million slivers and shards. He smiles, nodding, feeling deeply unsafe. “Okay bubba,” He replies, keeping his voice from wavering as best as he can. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me. It means a lot.”

Philip smiles, leaning forward to clap Henry on the shoulder. It’s firm and affectionate and completely oblivious to Henry’s pain. “Brothers look out for each other, I’m just doin’ my job.”

When he next sees Alex, they’re in Berlin at a gala, and he just needs to _feel_ something. He needs to feel _good_. He needs to feel like he’s _living_. He chases liberation in the back of a limousine, gets on his knees and sucks Alex off with the partition up. He lets Alex bind his wrists to a hotel bedpost with his cornflower blue necktie, lets him suck him off and eat him out. He’s squealing and shaking by the time it’s over, but he isn’t numb anymore.

He shows up for a weekly briefing two days later, and everything’s going swimmingly, until he realizes that Shaan has been staring at him for longer than he feels comfortable with.

“Is that a _hickey?_ ” Shaan asks, face scarily neutral, and Henry gulps.

“Perhaps,” He croaks in response, cringing when Shaan’s eyes widen.

“Who’s giving you hickeys, and why haven’t they signed an NDA?” Shaan asks, hissing, as if someone might actually hear them behind the closed door.

“If an NDA were necessary, I would have come to you.” Henry tells him. “I can’t count the amount of times I came to you in college, with groups of guys, all the time.”

“You lyin’ to me?” Shaan asks, voice rising in a way that would normally make Henry laugh. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don't need an NDA.”  
  


Shaan seems to think that Henry’s a terrible liar. 

Thankfully, Henry has nothing to lie about on this.

“I don’t need an NDA, Shaan.” Henry tells him, staring him down. “He’s already signed one; he’s pre-approved.”

“Just do you know,” Shaan starts, leaning in close. Henry can smell coffee and cinnamon-flavored gum on his breath. “I will chop off my down dick and let some Etsy lesbian make my balls into a pair of six-dollar earrings before I let you pull some dumbass stunt to cause your mother, the first female president, to be the first president to lose re-election since H fucking W. D’you hear me? I’ll lock you in your room for the next year if I have to, and you can do press events by fuckin’ smoke signal. I’ll pre-approve your fuckin’ nudes if that’s what it’ll take for you to keep it in your pants.”

“Jesus,” Henry breathes.  
  


Shaan turns back to his notes with only an adjustment, as if he didn’t just humiliate Henry. He peers to Bea and Martha, both of whom can tell he’s omitting information from this scenario.

Thank God Philip’s at home with a cold. 

“What’s your full name?”

“What?” Henry asks in return, chuckling. Alexander never starts a phone call properly, always starting with a question or some sort of odd comment.

“I _said_ ,” Alex starts, enunciating each word carefully. “What is your full name?”

“Why do you need to know?” He asks, playing with the loose threads on the old quilt draped over his lap. “Shouldn’t I be asking you this question?”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Alex whines, and it makes Henry laugh. “If I go first, will tell me yours after?”

“Yes,” He replies, agreeing to these terms. “Go on ‘head.”

Alex sighs. “The family name is Claremont-Windsor,” He explains. “Hyphenated. Windsor has been the family name since my great-grandad, I think. Claremont was my nan’s husband’s last name.”

“And Diaz is your dad’s last name.” Henry points out.

“Right, so my full name is... Alexander Gabriel Diaz-Claremont-Windsor.” Alex says, and Henry chokes on the next intake of breath, disguising it as a cough. “I know, it’s awful.”

“I think it’s handsome,” Henry replies once he gets ahold of himself. “Suits you well. Is it after anybody?”

“Alexander the Great, Gabriel after the patron saint of diplomats.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“It is. My sister got Catalina June after the place and the month, but I got all of the self-fulfilling prophecies.”

“I got Henry after Thoreau and James after James Baldwin. Henry James Fox.” He finds himself explaining.

“Queer authors,” Alex notes. “Another self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Mayhaps,” Henry replies, playful lilt to his voice. He doesn’t know why, get he gets all gushy whenever Alex brings up his writing. He needs to work on that.

“Three last names is just mean.”

Alex sighs. “In school we went by Wales.” He elaborates.

“Alex Wales? Not so bad.” 

“It’s not.”

“Is that the reason why you called, then?” Henry asks, smiling.

“Maybe,” Alex replies, something coy in his voice. “Call it a bit of historical curiosity.”

“Speaking of historical curiosity,” Henry starts. “I am sitting in the room Nancy Reagan was in when she found out Ronald Reagan was shot.”

“Good Lord,” Alex breathes. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not particularly,” He replies. “Bea thinks the whole place is haunted. It’s also where Tricky Dick told his family he was planning on resigning.”

“Who or what the fuck is a _Tricky Dick?_ ” Alex asks, sounding just a bit mortified.

“That’s what they call Richard Nixon.” Henry explains, laughing. “Listen, you’re deflowering America’s darling, and you’re a history nerd, you should at least know some of the weird stuff.”

“I hardly think deflowering’s the word for it,” Alex snorts. “These arrangements are supposed to be made with virgin brides, you know.”

“That certainly didn’t seem to be the case with you.” Henry quips.

“Uh-huh, and I’m sure you picked up all of those skills from books.”

“Well, I did go to college,” Henry concedes. “It just— it wasn’t necessarily the reading that did it.”

Alex hums, low and even, and Henry feels shame boiling his insides. He looks across the room— those windows were once only gauzy curtains on a sleeping room for Taft’s family on warm nights, the corner stacked with poetry books by Audre Lorde and Emily Dickinson where Eisenhower used to play cards. He feels weird.

“Hey,” Alex says, soft. “You sound weird, are you alright?”

Henry’s breath catches, and he quickly clears his throat. “I’m fine.” He replies, not a lie, but not exactly the truth.

The silence meanders along for a moment, before Alex speaks up again. “You know, this whole arrangement we have— you can tell me stuff. I tell you stuff all the time. I talk about family and uni, and I force you to explain American politics to me.” He laughs, nervous. “I know I’m not a great communicator, but, you know.”

Henry sighs, pushing his hand into his hair and tugging at it. “I’m not... historically great at talking about things.” 

“Well, I wasn’t historically good at giving blowjobs, but we all must learn and grow, sweetheart.”

“ _Wasn’t?_ ” He asks, mischievous, trying to change the conversation to something more bearable.

“ _Hey_ ,” Alexander huffs. “Is this your way of telling me that I’m still not good at them?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He replies, smiling. “It was just the first one that was— well, it was enthusiastic, at least.”  
  


“I don’t remember you complaining.” Alex sniffs.

“Yes, well, I’d only been dreaming of it for _ages_.”

“See, there’s something.” Alex points out, and Henry wants to scream. “You just told me that. You can tell me other stuff.”

“It’s hardly the same,” He argues.

“Baby.” Alex says, and it sets Henry’s blood on fire.

That’s a thing now: baby. He knows this. Alex has said it a few times, and every time, Henry’s walls come tumbling down, and he melts into a great big, gooey mess. Alex is playing dirty here.

“It’s, ah, not the best time,” Henry sighs. “Nutso family stuff.”

Henry has made vague references to Philip being uptight and being less than supportive of his needs, of his she-demon of a grandmother saying awful things about marriage and reproductive rights, and he mentions Bea as often as Alexander mentions June.

“Ah, I see.”

“I don’t suppose you keep up with American tabloids, do you?” He asks, picking at the skin on his fingers.

“I don’t, but June does.” Alex replies, and it makes Henry laugh.

“The _New York Post_ has always had an affinity for airing out our dirty laundry,” He replies, shaking just a bit. “They, uhm, they gave Bea this nickname a couple of years ago. ‘ _The Powder Princess’_.”

“Because of the—“

“Yes, Alex, the cocaine.” Henry sighs. He feels guilty for talking about it, but he needs to vent.

“Okay, that does sound familiar.”

“Well, someone spray painted ‘ _Powder Princess’_ on her car while she was at work today.”

“Shit,” Alex says, sounding disgusted. “And she’s not taking it well?”

Henry laughs, anxiety tricking through him. “Bea? No, she doesn’t usually care about these things. More shaken up that someone took the time to do it at her workplace than anything. Mawmaw tried to come up here and give the secret service how to and what for, but Philip stopped her. I dunno,” He trails off.

“But you care,” Alex substitutes. “You want to protect her, even though you’re the little brother.”

“I— yes.” Henry agrees.

“I know the feeling. A few summers back, June and I were in California with our dad at some event, and I almost punched this guy, because he tried to grab June’s arse.”

“But you didn’t?” 

“Amy tased him, my dad screamed at him, an June threw a drink in his face. There was nothing left for me to do. The smell was horrendous.“

Henry finds himself laughing at that. “They never need us, do they?”

“Nope,” Alex agrees. “So, you’re upset because the rumors aren’t true.”

“Well,” He says, taking a deep breath. “They _are_ true, actually.”

“Oh.” Alex says, sounding shocked. Henry wonders if he’s just scared him off completely, if this has just become too much for Alexander to handle. If he’s just ruined a good thing. He doesn’t stop.

“All she ever wanted to do was play music,” He explains. “Mama and Dad played too much Joni Mitchell for her growing up, I think. She wanted guitar lessons; Mawmaw wanted her to play the violin because it was more proper. She was allowed to learn both, of course, but she went to college for musical therapy, where she mainly played violin. Anyway, her last year of college, Dad died. It happened so quickly,” He mumbles. “He just _went_.”

“Fuck.” Alex says.

“Yeah,” Henry replies, on the verge of crying. “We were all bad for a while. Philip just had to be the man of the family, and I— I was terrible. Mama didn’t leave her room for months. Bea just didn’t see the point in anything anymore. I was starting college when she finished, and Philip was trying to pull his work life back together, and she was out all night every night with the loser hipsters from Dallas and playing her guitar at shows and doing mountains of cocaine. The magazines loved it.”

“Jesus,” Alex breathes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Henry whispers, clenching his teeth and jutting his chin out. “The paparazzi and photos and the nickname— they were just too damn much. Philip came back home for a week, and Mawmaw flew up, and they just—“ He bites the inside of his cheek. “Put her in a fuckin’ car and had her taken off to rehab. Told the press it was a _wellness retreat._ ”

“Wait— sorry,“ Alex says, hesitant. “Where was your mum through all this?”

“Mama was just, the grief had completely totaled her. Grief is paralyzing. She’s back now, though. Her usual spitfire self. She listens, now. She’s better. She just didn’t have it in her at the time to be there for anyone— to hold us and tell us that we were gonna be okay. Because we weren’t. We weren’t okay.”

“That’s... horrible.”

He pauses, then pushes through. “So, she went. Against her will, didn’t think she had a problem at all, even though you could see her ribs and she’d barely spoken to me in months when we grew up joined at the hip. Checked herself out after six hours. She called me from a club, I was, like, eighteen, and I lost it. I drove there, and she was sat on the back steps, in a whole different universe, and I sat down next to her and cried my eyes out and told her that she wasn’t allowed to kill herself because dad was dead and I was gay and struggling with a whole bunch of different mental health issues, and that was how I came out to her. The next day, she went back, and she’s been lean since, and nobody’s spoken about it since then.” He rambles. “Until now, I guess. I don’t know why I said all that, I just— I’ve never really had a chance to say it out loud, I mean, Pez was there for most of it, so, and I— I don’t know.” He clears his throat, starting to panic. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken so much in my life before, so feel free to put me out of my misery at any time now.”

“No, no,” Alex is quick to assure him. “I’m glad you told me. Does it feel better at all to have said it?”

Henry has to pause and think about it. “I guess so. Thank you. For listening.”

“Of course,” Alex replies. “I mean, it’s good to have times where it’s not all about me, you know? As tedious and exhausting as it may be.”

Henry groans. “You’re such a _bitch_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex says. “Does anyone else know? About you?”

“Just Bea and Martha, I’m sure the rest have suspected, though. I think Dad knew and just didn’t care. Mawmaw sat me down right before my graduation ceremony and made it very clear that I was not to let anyone know about any unnatural desires I might be beginning to harbor, because it would look bad for the family,” He says, letting it all out. “So,”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Love growing up Southern Baptist.” He jokes. It doesn’t stick.

“God,” Alex sighs. “I’ve had to fake things for Mum, but if I were to tell her something like— well— about us, she wouldn’t force me to lie about who I am.”  
  


“She doesn’t see it like that— she sees it as what needs to be done.”

“A load of shite, right there.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” He replies.

There’s a long pause, and Alex speaks up.

“Tell me about your dad.”

  
Henry’s heart spasms.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course— just, I don’t know much about him, besides the fact that he was in action films. What was he like?”

Henry paces the Solarium and talks about a man who shared his sandy hair and straight nose, someone Alex has only met in passing comments. He tells him about sneaking out of the farmhouse, or out of the hotels Arthur stayed in when he was filming and brought the family along and joyriding around all those western towns, learning how to play baseball and tend to animals and nature, being propped up in director’s chairs. A man who encompassed his entire childhood and charmed the world, but was also only a man.

He speaks in a low voice about his mother, dead set on being in the senate by thirty, mid-twenties and wading through Shakespeare and bar exam prep books. How she went and saw some off-Broadway production of _Chicago_ , and saw his father starring there, how she shoved her way backstage and Mary forbade them from being together, but they never stopped fighting for each other, not even for a minute. He tells him about Waco, how Bea sang and Philip clung to their grandmother and how his best friends were a load of barn animals, but they were all happy, sitting under great grand oak trees, everything bathed in burlap and linen and smelling of citrus and wildflowers. He talks about how he knew his mother was important by the time he reached the age of four, because he would go with her to work in DC, and people would follow them and photograph them, and he didn’t know if he liked the attention and bright lights, so Catherine sunk to his level and told him that she would never let anyone touch him, not ever.

Alexander starts to talk, too. He talks about growing up in Kensington, how it was all cashmere and knee socks and not wearing actual full-length trousers until he was nearly a pre-teen, being whisked through foreign countries in helicopters and shiny cars. He talks about hiding scrapped lists of just about everything and anything in quiet nooks and crannies, and seems shocked by the lack of judgement on Henry’s end.

It starts to grow dark, a dull, soggy evening at the Residence, and Henry makes his way down to his room and bed. He tells him about the plethora of guys he saw in college, all of them absolutely enamored with the scandal that comes with sleeping with the president’s son, but not a single one enamored with him. Always alienated by the paperwork and secrecy, and occasionally, Henry’s dark moods about said paperwork and secrecy.

“But of course, uhm,” Henry says. “Nobody, well... since you and I—“

“No,” Alex says, and it strikes something deep inside him. “Me neither. No one else.”

Alex is talking again, about a friend from Aston called Liam, about kissing Liam and touching him and washing his hands of it all as soon as they’d finished each time. He talks about how he would also sneak Adderall out of Liam’s bottle of pills to stay awake for days on end, just to get through his classes. He talks about how he knew his parents were on the brink of divorce when he was eleven, how up until two years ago, his father still wore his wedding ring. About June, how she’ll take their mother’s place one day, and about how that absolutely horrifies Alex. About how it hurts to not be completely transparent with his mother, about how he’s bisexual and he’s been too scared to tell anyone up until this point.

They talk for so long that Henry has to plug in his phone to keep it from dying. He sets the phone on his chest, lays down, and listens. Imagines Alex in his own bed, two parentheses enclosing 3,700 miles. He looks at his chewed up fingers and imagines Alex kissing them and holding them so that they don’t ache or snag on his threadbare sweaters. He imagines, for once, what Alex would look like in silvery-blue lighting instead of remembering how it shines golden under sunlight and crystal chandeliers. Perhaps there’s stubble on his jaw, waiting for a morning shave, or maybe he’d have puffy bags beneath his eyes from a lack of sleep.

Somehow, this is the same person he was convinced was obnoxious and arrogant and selfish. He doesn’t know how he’s convinced the world that he’s this mild, unbothered Prince Charming. It’s taken months: the full realization of just how wrong he is.  
  


“I miss you,” Alex breathes suddenly over the line.

“I miss you, too.” Henry says, feeling very warm.

“When were you going to tell me?” Bea asks, barging into his room.

“Tell you what?” He asks, keys clicking beneath his fingers as he types.

“Henry James Fox, _don’t_ play stupid with me.” She scolds, shutting the door behind herself and flopping onto his bed with a running jump.

“Could you not?” He asks, swiveling around in his chair to face her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?” She asks, and he knows he’s fucked.

“I have no idea what you’re—“

“Do you _really_ wanna lie to me right now?” She asks, sounding upset. “ _Really?_ ”

He pinches his lips together, heart pounding. “Martha told you.”

“You told Martha before me?” She asks incredulously. “ _Henry!_ ”

“It’s not meant to be personal!” He replies earnestly. “I just— Martha’s calming, you know? The only reason I went to her first was because I was already there to work on some stuff for Christmas, remember?”

“When were you planning on telling me?”

He sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I dunno, after the election? I didn’t want to risk too many people knowing.”

“You were going to wait until November,” She says, voice low now. “To tell me that you are _fucking_ the _Prince of England?_ ”

“Say it _louder_ , will you? Maybe Shaan or Philip will heat you as they’re walking down the hallway. Or Mama, God, that would be _lovely_.” He scoffs.

“You haven’t told Mom?”

“She doesn’t need that kind of stress, Beatrice.”

“Hey,” She says, suddenly scooting closer. “Don’t pull the government name out. This isn’t a fight; we’re not mad. I just— I wasn’t aware of your reasoning. I thought you thought I wasn’t gonna be supportive of you. I dunno, it sounds silly now that I’ve said it. ‘M sorry,” She apologizes, purple painted nails resting on his leg.

“It’s okay,” He replies. “I can see why you were upset.”

“Can I give you some advice?” She asks.

He nods. “Sure.”

“You grab that boy, you cherish him, and don’t you dare let him go,” She tells him. “The people in our lives— we meet them for a reason. I’ve never seen you happier than I have when you’re talking to him. He’s your match,” She says, sighing. “You don’t have to be what Philip, or Mary, or even what America wants you to be. You can be Henry, and you can do that by his side. You’re allowed to make the decisions.”

He sighs, shaky, and places his hand over hers. “It doesn’t feel that way sometimes,”

She smiles sadly. “I know, but I promise you that it is.” 

She leans forward, pecks his forehead, and hugs him. He feels emotionally overwhelmed, but he doesn’t mind it.

“What is he to you?” She asks, and he laughs.

“To me, he’s— well, he’s everything, I guess.” He explains. “He makes me happier than anyone ever really has.”

“Have you told him this?” She asks.  
  


He sighs. “It’s not that type of relationship.”

She screeches. “Why can’t men fucking _communicate?_ ” She shouts at the ceiling, and Henry cackles.

They cozy up together in bed, watching Bake-Off and eating frozen yogurt Bea had the kitchen send up, and it’s nice; cathartic. He hadn’t realized just how terrified he was of her putting the pieces together until she actually did it, and now he’s left wondering why he even felt that way in the first place.

Once Bea knows, their circle is up to a tight seven.

Before Alexander, most of his romantic entanglements as FSOTUS were once-off incidents that involved Cash confiscating phones before the act and pointing at the dotted line on the way out with the air of a cruise ship director. Along with the Red Room incident, he figured that it would be inevitable that he and Amy were looped in.

Then there’s Shaan, the only person on his mother’s staff who knows that he’s gay. He ultimately doesn’t care, so long as Henry’s staying out of trouble and staying quiet in the public eye. He’s ruffled by absolutely nothing, his affection for Henry showing in the way he tends to him like a houseplant; Zahra’s all rough edges and tough love when it comes to Alex, apparently. He knows for the same reason Amy and Cash now; absolute necessity.

Then Nora, who has the audacity to look smug over FaceTime when the topic arises. And June, who very unfortunately found out when she walked in on one of their after-dark sessions, leaving Alex stammering, and her screaming, and thousand-yard stares for the next two days.

Pez has been in on it all along. Alex FaceTimes him at 4 in the morning DC time, hoping to catch Henry still awake as he sips his coffee and pours over notes. It’s his last week of university, and he seems more than stressed.

“Alexander, babes.” Pez answers the call while Henry sits at his desk. “How lovely for you to give your auntie Pezza a call on this magnificent, early Sunday morning.” 

Henry snorts.

“Good morning, Pez.” Alex replies, smile obvious in his voice. “What are you lot up to?”

“My apartment is being renovated, so I’m just spending the night, and being _ignored_ by Henry. Say hello to your strumpet, Henry.”

He swivels around in his chair. “Hello, strumpet.” He says with a wink, not overlooking the way Alex’s bottom lip gets momentarily sucked into his mouth. “What’s got you so tired?” He asks, scooting closer, noticing dark eye bags beneath glasses.

“Finals week,” He groans. “My brain is fried. Is it too late to call it quits?”

“I’m afraid so,” He replies, smiling. “I’ll have Cash bring you and Nora earpieces so she can spoon-feed you the answers.”

“I can take it for you,” Pez interjects. “I was at the top of my class in college.”

“In business and finance, you don’t know jack shit about philosophy or politics. You do know quite a bit about economics, though. ”

“What are you on about, child? There’s nothing I can’t do. I know everything.”

Alexander laughs, soft and drained.

“What’re you studyin’ for right now?”

“Comparative economics,” Alex replies, surveying his notes.

“That’s hot.” Henry jokes.

Alex smirks, playful. “Yeah? You like free market economy? Do property transactions do something for you?”  
  


Henry hums. “Maybe they do.”

“I was hoping you two would start talking dirty,” Pez says. “Please, carry on.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to keep up, darling.” Alex tells him, and Henry’s heart drops at the expression on his friend’s face.

“Oh, _really_?” Pez asks, turning it back to himself. “What if I put my co—“

“ _Pez_ ,” Henry warns, placing a hand over his mouth. “I beg of you. Alex, what part of ‘ _good at everything_ ’ did you think was worth testing? You’re going to get us all killed.”

“That’s the goal,” Alex replies, chipper. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Pez licks Henry’s palm, effectively freeing himself. “Streaking naked through downtown DC and frightening the commoners, then returning to the Residence for body shots and gelato and moaning about the royal siblings, which has become tragically one-sided since you and Henry shacked up. It used to be all bottles of Rosé and shared malaise and ‘ _When will they notice us’—_ “

“ _Don’t tell him that!”_ Henry exclaims, beating Pez in the chest, red-faced and embarrassed.

“— and now I just ask Henry, _‘What is your secret?’_ And he says, _‘I insult Alex all the time and that seems to work.’”_

“I will throw you out of here.” He threatens.

“That won’t work on June,” Alex tells Pez, amused.

“Let me get a pen—“

Henry’s genuinely surprised when Alex and Pez start spitballing for philanthropy projects. It’s mostly idealism, expanding upon Pez’s pre-existing LGBT youth shelters, HIV clinics and refugee programs. They plan to go international— Western Europe, Nairobi, Los Angeles— the youth shelters will be in four different countries. It’s all very ambitious, but Alexander’s father had a trust fund set up for him at birth, despite being married to Ellen at the time. His royal accounts are untouched. He’s determined to use them for nothing but this.

He’s laying on his floor with his head on Pez’s chest, his friend long since passed out as he and Alex continue to talk. He’s always wanted to be someone who will leave a mark on the world. Alexander is going to save it, one day at a time. It’s intoxicating; he is sleep deprived.

Alex’s finals come and go without much fanfare. Henry’s there every night for a solid week to hear about presentations and papers and exams, and then just like that— it’s all over.

_HRH Prince Alexander of Wales graduates summa cum laude from Oxford University with a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics_ , Henry’s Google alerts read when he checks them in the upstairs game room, their family dinner having been moved to a breakfast this week. 

He’s there first one in, so he gives Alex a call.

“Hello?” Alex’s voice rings out over the phone, sounded exhilarated and exhausted at the same time.

“Congrats, graduate.” Henry immediately says, softening when he hears Alex laugh.

“Thank you,” He breathes, the sound making goosebumps pop up on Henry’s skin. “It’s finally over. I’m out of uni.”

“And you didn’t even have to bribe your professors with sexual favors to get it done.”

“I’m sure some of them might be able to actually purge me from their nightmares soon.”

“Are you trying to tell me you weren’t a role model student?” He asks, mockingly scandalized.

“Perhaps,” Alex replies, giggling. “I had opinions, and I made them known.”

“Good, let the world know what you have to say,” Henry praises, crossing one leg over the other. “Hon, I’m so proud of you. College takes a lot to get through. I remember what it was like for me— it wasn’t easy, certainly not at the end—“ There's noise in the background, and it stops him. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, no, just a small family gathering.” Alexander replies. “Keep telling me how proud you are of me, give me the validation I crave from you.”

“And let your ego shoot through the roof? I don’t think so.” Henry chuckles, alarmed when his phone buzzes.

A few seconds later, Bea comes bursting into the game room. 

“ _Fuck_ Henry, Jacinto just called a presser,” She rasps, breathing erratically.

“And?” He replies, covering the mouthpiece of his phone.

“Word’s that he’s droppin’ outta the primary,” She says, panic evident on her face. “It’s officially Fox versus Richards 2020.”

Henry’s heart drops, and he uncovers the mouthpiece. “I—“

“I just got the text alert,” Alex replies, sounding serious and a bit frazzled. “Go.”

Henry hangs up and immediately takes off with Bea towards the West Wing briefing room. They get there, and the door is shut, but they can hear shouting. It’s very muted, but if he presses the side of his face against the wall, he can hear something. Bea has no interest in being nosy, frantically texting their mother and Martha.

“Fuck, Shaan,” Rafael Luna, the senator from Colorado says, sounding more angry and desperate than Henry has ever heard before. He’s met him a few times before, and recently found out that he’s a close friend of Oscar Diaz. “Have you told her? Does she know that you’re making me do this?”

“She’s too careful,” Shaan replies. “Sometimes it’s best that she doesn’t know.”

There’s a hissing sound, an exhale, weight shifting. “I’m not going behind her back to do something I don’t even want to do.”

“You mean to tell me that after what he did to you, there’s not a part of you that’s still angry, Senator? There’s not a part of you that’s willing to take him down?”

“ _God_ , of course there is.” Luna says. “But we all know it’s not that fucking simple. It _never_ is.”

“Listen, Senator Luna. I know you’ve kept the files. Oscar’s filled me in on everything. You won’t even have to make a statement. We could have it leaked to the press. How many other people, children, do you think have been—“

“Don’t.”

“—and how many more—“

“You don’t think she can win on her own, do you?” Luna intercepts, voice sharp as a blade. “I thought you and Oscar would have a little more faith in her than that.”

“It isn’t about that. It’s different this time.”

“Why don’t you leave me and something that happened _twenty fucking years ago_ out of this and focus on winning this goddamn election, Srivastava? I don’t—“

Henry makes his way over to where Bea’s sat on the ground when the doorknob twists.

Shaan emerges first, then Luna. He grabs him by his shoulders, squeezing them tight, giving him a once over. His voice is clipped. “Just think about it, Senator.”

Rafael sighs, nods curtly and walks away.

Henry turns to Bea. She looks confused.

He feels the same.

It starts with a fund-raiser, a silk suit and a big check, a nice white-tablecloth event. It starts, as it always does, with a text: **fund-raiser in LA next weekend. already told Pez, says he’s going to get us all matching embroidered kimonos. put you down for a plus-one?**

He sits through a meeting and lunch with Shaan who flat-out changes the subject every time he tries to bring up Rafael Luna. Afterwards, he heads to the gala, where he gets to meet June again. She’s just as he remembered, all poise and wavy hair, soft brown eyes and a big smile. She’s got on a cardigan over her cocktail dress, and her nail polish is chipped. She bounds up and wraps her arms around him, swaying from side to side and asking about a million questions at once. Absolutely darling.

It’s a lot of champagne and too many handshakes and a couple of speeches— one by Pez, charming as always— and as soon as it’s all over and done with, their collective security convened at the exit and they’re off.

Pez has, as promised, six matching silk kimonos waiting in the limo, each one embroidered across the back with a different riff on a name from a movie. Henry’s is a lurid teal and says _HOE DAMERON_. Alex’s lime-green one reads _PRINCE BUTTERCUP._

They end up somewhere in West Hollywood at a shitty, sparkling karaoke bar Pez somehow knows about, neon bright enough that it feels spontaneous even though Cash and the rest of their security have been checking it and warning people against taking photos for half an hour before they arrive. The bartender has immaculate pink lipstick and stubble poking through thick foundation, and they rapidly line up five shots and a soda with line.

“Oh, gosh,” Henry says, coughing as he peers down into his empty shot glass. “What’s in these? Vodka?”

“Yep,” Nora confirms, to which both Pez and Bea break out into a fit of giggles.

“What?” Alex asks.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve had vodka since I was a junior in college,” Henry says. “It makes me a little, well—“

“Flamboyant?” Pez suggests. “Uninhibited? _Randy_?”

“ _Fun?_ ” Bea suggests.

“Excuse you,” He says, glaring at her. “I am loads of fun all the time! I’m a _delight_!”

“Hello, excuse me, may we get another round of these, please?” Alex calls politely down the bar.

Bea screams, Henry laughs and flips Alex off, and everything starts going hazy and warm. They all tumble into a round booth, and the lights are low, and he and Alex are keeping a safe distance, but he can’t help noticing how the special effect beams keep hitting Alex’s cheekbones, hollowing his face out in blues and greens. Henry knows he must look like something else— half-drunk and grinning in an expensive suit and a kimono, and he can’t stop staring at the complete and utter wildness that’s taken over his Alexander. He waves over a gin and tonic. 

Once things get going, it’s impossible to tell how Bea is the one persuaded up to the stage first, but she unearths a cowboy hat— completing her dress and boots ensemble— and rips through a cover of “Call Me” by Blondie. They all wolf whistle and cheer, and the bar crowd finally realizes they’ve got two members of the royal family, the FSOTUS and the FDOTUS, an award-winning actress, and a millionaire philanthropist crammed into one of the sticky booths in a rainbow of vivid silk. Three rounds of shots appear— one from a drunk bachelorette party, one from a herd of surly butch chicks at the bar, and one from a table of drag queens. They raise a toast, and Alex is positively glowing, alive with a type of light that Henry has only seen in him a few times before.

Pez gets up and launches into “So Emotional” by Whitney Houston in a shockingly flawless falsetto that has the whole club on their feet in a matter of moments, shouting their approval as he belts out the glory notes. Alex looks to Henry in giddy awe, and he finds himself laughing and shrugging.

“I told you, there’s nothing he can’t do,” He shouts over the music.

June is watching the whole performance with her hands clapped to her face, mouth hanging open, and she leans over to Nora and drunkenly yells. “Oh, no... he’s... so... _hot_...”

“I know, babe.” Nora yells back.

“I want to... put my fingers in his mouth...” She moans, sounding horrified.

Nora cackles, nods appreciatively, and says, “Can I help?”

Bea, who has gone through five different lime and sodas so far, politely declines a shot that that’s been given to her, passing it down. Henry throws it back, the burn making his smile and legs spread a little wider. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he checks it under the table. A message from Alex: **wanna do something stupid?**

He looks to Alex, a fire in his eyes that’s claimed him and reduced everything around them to smoking ash. He grins, arching a brow at him.

_What could be stupider than this?_

Alex then texts him something so vulgar, so obscene and depraved that Henry is left floundering and half-hard. Alexander just smiles, leaning back in the booth, making a show of wrapping his wet lips around the bottle of his beer. Henry’s certain that he’s living out some sort of fantasy. He makes some pathetic excuse about going to the bathroom that nobody hears, slipping past Cash and his pink feather boa.

Alex is on his heels after a ten second delay, and catches him whilst he’s leaning against the sink with his arms folded, trying to pull himself together.

“Have I mentioned lately that you’re a _demon?”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex replies, grabbing him by the belt after being sure that the coast is clear, backing him into a stall. “Tell me about it later.”

“This still ain’t convincin’ me to sing, you know that right?” He chokes out, Alex mouthing along his throat.

“You really think it’s a good idea to present me with a challenge, sweetheart?”

Thirty minutes and two rounds later, Henry is in front of a screaming crowd, absolutely butchering “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen whilst Nora sings backup and Bea throws glittery gold roses at his feet. He’s not sure where the roses came from, and he’s not sure if he actually cares.

“ _I wanna make a supersonic woman out of youuu!”_ He shouts, off his ass intoxicated, lunging violently sideways, catching Nora by both arms. “ _Don’t stop me! Don’t stop me! Don’t stop me!”_

“ _Hey, hey, hey!_ ” The entire bar yells back. Pez is practically on the table now, pounding the back of the booth with one hand and helping June up onto a chair with the other.

“ _Don’t stop me! Don’t stop me!_ ”

Alex cups his hands around his mouth. “Ooh, ooh, ooh!”

In a cacophony of shouting and kicking and pelvic thrusting, the song blasts into the guitar solo, and there’s not a single person in their seat, not when the FSOTUS is knee-sliding across the stage, playing passionate and semi-erotic air guitar.

Nora has produced a bottle of champagne and starts spraying Henry with it, and Alex loses his mind laughing, climbs on top of his seat and wolf-whistles. Bea is beside herself, tears streaming down her face, and Pez is on top of the table now, June dancing beside him, a smear of nude lipstick in his platinum hair.

He’s yelling into the microphone again and stumbling to his feet as Bea and Alex dance together. His eyes flick upwards, hazy and hot, and unmistakably lock with Alex’s at the edge of the stage, smiling broad and messy. _“I wanna make a supersonic man outta youuuuuu!”_

By the end, there’s a standing ovation awaiting him, and Bea’s ruffling his champagne-sticky hair.

They’re all back in their seats, when Alexander turns to Bea and slurs, “Bisexuality is truly a rich and complex tapestry,” and she screams with laughter, shoving a napkin in his mouth.

For the next hour, he doesn’t catch much— back of the limo, jostling for a spot in Alex’s lap with Nora, an In-N-Out drive thru and June screaming next to Alex’s ear, “Animal Style, did you hear me say Animal Style? Stop fucking laughing, Pez.” There's the hotel, three suites booked up for them on the very top floor, riding through the lobby on Cash’s impossibly broad back.

June keeps shushing them as they stumble to their rooms with hands full of grease-soaked burger bags, but she’s louder than any of them, so it’s a zero-sum game. Bea, perpetually the line sober of the group, picks one of the suites at random and deposits June and Nora in the king-size bed and Pez in the empty bathtub.

“I’m guessin’ y’all can handle yourselves?” She says to Alex and Henry in the hallway, glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she hands them the third key. “I intend completely to put on a robe and dip french fries in my milkshake.”

“Yes, Beatrice, we shall be on our best behavior,” Henry says, eyes slightly crossed.

“Don’t be a bitch.” She replies, kissing them both on the cheek before vanishing around the corner.

Henry’s laughing into the curls at the nape of Alex’s neck by the time Alex is fumbling the door open, and they stumble together into the wall, then toward the bed, clothes dropping in their wake. Alex smells like expensive cologne and champagne and that distinctly Alex smell that never goes away, rich and heavenly, and his chest encompasses Henry’s back when he crowds up behind him at the edge of the bed, splaying his hands over his hips.

“ _Supersonic man out of youuuu_ ,” Alex mumbles low, leaning forward to mouth at his neck, and Henry laughs, turning around and kicking his knees out from under him.

It’s a clumsy, sideways tumble into bed, both of them grabbing greedy handfuls of the other, Henry’s pants are still dangling from one ankle, but it doesn’t matter because his eyes have fluttered shut and Alex is kissing him again.

Alex’s hands travel south on instinct, sweet muscle memory of Henry’s body against his, until Henry reaches down to stop him.

“Hold on, hold on,” Henry says. “I’m just realizing. All that earlier, and you haven’t got off yet tonight, have you?” He drops his head back on the pillow, regarding Alex with narrowed eyes. “Well, that simply won’t do.”

“Really, now?” Alex says. He takes advantage of the moment, kissing the column of Henry’s throat, hollow at his collarbone, the knot of his Adam’s apple. “What are you going to do about it?”

Henry pushes a hand into his hair, giving it a little pull. “It’ll be the best orgasm of your life. What can I do to make it good for you? Talk about Brexit during the act? Have you got talking points?”

He’s grinning when Alex looks up. “I hate you.”

“Maybe some light polo role-play?” He’s laughing now, can’t help himself, squeezing Alex to his chest. “ _O captain, my captain_.”

“You’re actually the worst.” Alex says, and undercuts it by kissing him once more, gently, then deeply, long and slow and heated. Henry’s body shifts beneath his, opening up.

“Hang on,” Henry breathes, breaking off. “Wait.” Alex opens his eyes, and Henry is nervous, unsure. He decides to just say it. “I, uhm, I actually have an idea.”

Alex’s hand slides up his chest to the side of his jaw, ghosting over his cheek with one finger. It gives him the chills. “Hey,” Alex says, sounding serious. “I’m listening, I really am.”

Henry bites his lip, drunken anxiousness surging through him. “C’mere,” He says, surging up to kiss Alex, putting his whole body into it, sliding his hands down to palm at his ass as he kisses him. A sound tears itself from Alex’s throat, and he’s following Henry’s lead now, kissing him deep into the mattress, riding his body like a continuous wave.

Henry wraps his thighs around him, pressing his heels into Alex’s back. Alex breaks off to look at him, and Henry hopes his intentions are clear.

“Are you certain?”

“I know we haven’t,” Henry finds himself saying quietly. “But, uhm, I have before. I can show you.”

“I’m familiar with the mechanics,” Alex replies, smirking, and he finds himself growing hot, mirroring the look on Alex’s face. “You want me to?”

“Yeah,” Henry murmurs, pushing his hips up, his moan broken where Alexander’s is guttural. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

His shaving kit is on the nightstand, and he fumbles through it before finding what he’s looking for— a condom and his tiny bottle of lube.

“This is new,” Alex says, amused. 

“Yes, well,” Henry replies, taking one of Alex’s hands in his and bringing it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. “We must all learn and grow, and whatnot.”

Just as Alex is about to roll his eyes, he sucks two fingers into his mouth, shutting him up as he sucks and swirls his tongue around them. It’s a move he wouldn’t usually pull, but he likes seeing Alex all flustered. 

They aren’t as drunk as they were before, but there’s alcohol in their systems, and it doesn’t feel so daunting. Fingers start finding their way, and his head falls back into the pillow as he lets Alex take over.

Sex with Alexander is never the same twice. Sometimes it’s quick and easy and they get caught up in the rush, and other times he’s trying to soothe Henry when he’s tense and taught, working him apart. Sometimes nothing gets him off faster than being talked back to, but other times they both want him to use every inch of his body, not to let Henry get there until he’s been told, until he’s begging and crying for it.

It’s unpredictable and intoxicating and fun, because Alex has never met a challenge he didn’t love, and Henry likes to think that he’s quite challenging.

Tonight, he feels silly and warm and safe and ready, body quick and smooth to give Alex what he’s looking for, giggling and incredulous at his own responsiveness to touch. Alex leans down to kiss him, murmuring a soft “Ready when you are, love.” into the corner of his mouth.

Henry’s ready, hand coming up to stroke along his jaw and sweaty hairline as Alex settles between his legs, his left hand lacing with Henry’s right.

He’s watching Henry, who’s currently a mess of bitten lips and knitted brows, expression slowly going soft. 

“Baby,” Alex says, voice hoarse, and Henry’s nodding, moaning when Alex sucks his earlobe between his lips and calls him baby again. He tugs his hair at the root, saying, ‘ _Yes_ ’ and ‘ _Please_ ’.

Alex nips at his throat and palms at his hips and is impossibly close to him, sharing his body and making him sink into hot-white pleasure. It’s good, so, so, so fucking good. Alex’s face should be fucking illegal, roguishly handsome and coming undone. He smiles, and Henry starts trembling. 

Afterwards, he comes back in small bursts of energy, ankles still locked tight around his waist, stomach slick and sticky, Alex’s hands twisted up into his hair, playing with it.

Everything feels quiet and soft and a little bit out of place in the best way possible. He pulls back his face to look at Alex, who’s looking rather dazed and awestruck.

“Jesus Christ,” Alex whispers, and Henry’s squinting impishly out of one eye, smirking.

“Would you describe it as _supersonic?_ ” He asks, and Alex groans, slapping him across the chest, the both of them dissolving into messy laughter.

They slide apart and make out and argue about who has to sleep in the wet spot until they pass out around four in the morning. Henry spoons Alex from behind after turning him on his side, every inch of their bodies touching and melding together, existing in perfect harmony. It’s the best Henry has slept in a very, very long time.

Their alarms go off three hours later for their respective flights home. Henry feels gloomy and upset and sour over morning coffee, not wanting Alex to go back to London so soon, and Alex kisses him, stupidly, and promises to call, wishing there was more he could do.

Henry catches him staring as he lathers up and shaves, putting pomade in his hair and pulling on something comfortable to wear for the day. There’s something intimate about it, Alex sitting on the bed he fucked him into the night before, watching him get ready the morning after. He does the same, watching Prince Alexander of Wales being built up for the day, piece by piece.

He regrets fucking him; all he wants to do now is kiss him and hold him and beg him to stay with him for just a while longer. It’s disgusting.

He might also puke. He thinks it’s unrelated.

They meet the others in the hallway, Henry doing far less than his best while Alex passes for hungover and handsome. Bea is well-rested and annoyingly smug about it. Pez, June, and Nora all emerge disheveled from their suite looking like the cats that caught the canaries. A smudge of Nora’s crimson red lipstick is on the back of June’s neck. Nobody asks.

Cash chuckles under his breath when he meets them at the elevators, a tray of six coffees balanced on one hand. Hangover tending isn’t part of his job description, but he’s a mother hen.

“So, this is the gang now, huh?”

Through it all, Henry comes to a wonderful, horrifying realization: he has friends now.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it fellas fuck Trump 💙
> 
> Tw: homophobia and talks of depression 
> 
> Alex: bold   
> Henry: Italics  
> June: italics + underlined  
> Nora: bold + italics

**You are a dark sorcerer**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 6/8/20 3:23 PM  
to **A**

  
_Alex,_

_I can’t think of a single other way to start this email, except to say, and I hope you will forgive my language and my complete lack of constraint when when I say this: You are so fucking beautiful._

_I’ve been useless for about a week now, driven around for appearances and meetings, lucky if I’ve made a single meaningful contribution to any of them. How is a man supposed to get anything done knowing Alex Diaz-Claremont-Windsor is out there making a mockery of the British monarchy? I have been driven to distraction._

_It’s all completely useless because when I’m not thinking about you, I’m thinking about your ass or your legs or your impossibly smart mouth. I suspect the latter is what got me into this predicament in the first place. Nobody has your nerve. The moment you first called me a prick, my fate was sealed. O, fathers of your bloodline! O, ye kings of olde! Take his crown from him, bury the both of us in your ancestral soil. If only they had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a bisexual heir who likes it when American boys with blond hair and calloused hands are mean to him._

_Have you done research on the gay kings, with whom you share a bloodline? I feel that James I, who fell madly in love with a very fit and exceptionally dim knight at a tilting match and immediately made him a gentleman of the bedchamber (a real title), would take mercy upon my particular plight._

_I’ll be damned, but I miss you. Dearly._

_Henry_

**Re: You are a dark sorcerer**  
——————————————————————  
**A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 6/8/20 7:21 PM  
to **Henry**

_H,_

_Are you implying that you’re James I and I’m some hot, stupid jock? I’m more than fantastic bone structure and an arse you can bounce a quarter on, Henry!!!!_

_Don’t apologize for calling me pretty, because then you’re putting me in a position where I have to apologize for saying you blew my bloody mind in LA, and that I will die if it doesn’t happen again soon. How’s that for lack of restraint, huh? You really wanna play that game with me?_

_Listen: I’ll fly to DC right now and pull you out of whatever pointless meeting you’re in and make you admit how much you love it when I call you “baby”. I’ll take you apart with my teeth, sweetheart._

_xoxo,  
  
A_

  
**Re: You are a dark sorcerer**  
——————————————————————  
**Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 6/8/20 7:21 PM  
to **A**

_Alex,_

_You know, when you go to Columbia University to get a degree in English Literature, as I have, a lot of people are going to want to know who your favorite author is._

_The press teams compiled lists of acceptable answers for both of us— I know they did for you, because never once have I seen you pick up a book, much less one of Dickens’ works. I suggested Maya Angelou— no, she didn’t shy away from political controversy. They wanted an American who made impact on society, so I asked about Allen Ginsberg— no, he was a well-known homosexual who was wrapped up in the intertwinings of a murder case when he went to Columbia himself. At this point, I throw out James Baldwin, one of my namesakes, and watched the collective coronary they had at the thought of the black, queer man who wrote Giovanni’s Room._

_In the end, they picked F. Scott Fitzgerald, which is hilarious. They wanted something less fruity than the truth, but truly, what is gayer than a man who writes an entire novel about his neighbor, and stumbles from the apartment of the mistress of his cousin’s husband, right into the bed of a male stranger, showing him photographs whilst he’s half-naked?_

_The fruity truth: My favorite author is Jane Austen._

_So, to borrow a passage from Sense and Sensibility: “You want nothing but patience— or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.” To paraphrase: I hope to see you put your obnoxious heaps of wealth where your filthy mouth is soon._

_Yours in sexual frustration,_

_  
Henry_

Henry feels like somebody has warned him about private email servers before, but he’s a little fuzzy on the details. It doesn’t feel important.

At first, like most things that require time when instant gratification is possible, he doesn’t see the point of Alexander’s emails, or his own.

But when Richards tells Sean Hannity that his mother hasn’t accomplished anything as president, Henry screams into his elbow and goes back to: **you remind me of an open flame, i can’t touch you without burning, but i’ve always adored the ashes in your wake.** When Philip barges into his room to yell at him about something he’s sparked an argument with their mother on for the fifth time that day: **your arse in those trousers is a crime.  
  
**

He gets it, now.

Alex seems uncomfortable at some point during the day— too many people talking to him and touching him and being near him for him to handle. He sends a line of his own: _Come back to me when you’re done being flung through the firmament, you lost Pleiad_.

Shaan wasn’t wrong about how ugly things would get with Richards leading the ticket. Utah ugly, Christian ugly, ugliness couched in dog whistles and toothy white smiles. Right-wing think pieces about entitlement thrown in his and Bea’s direction, reeking of: _Nonbelievers have infiltrated the First Family, too._

He can’t let the fear of losing in. He drinks tea and brings some policy work on the campaign trail and drinks more tea, reads emails from Alex, and takes some caffeine pills with his tea.

DC Pride happens while he’s in Nevada, and he’s consumed with jealousy as he checks Twitter— confetti raining down on the Mall, grand marshal Rafael Luna with a rainbow bandana around his head. He sends a picture of him to Alex, who echoes his jealousy completely. He goes back to his hotel and talks to his minibar about it.

The biggest bright spot in all the chaos would have to be how he slipped almost effortlessly into working on Catherine’s campaign. His lobbying with one of the campaign chairs (and his own mother) has finally paid off. They're doing a massive rally at Minute Maid Park in Houston. Polls are are shifting in directions they’ve never seen before. Politico’s top story of the week: _IS 2020 THE YEAR TEXAS BECOMES A TRUE BATTLEGROUND STATE?_

“Yes, I’ll make sure everyone knows the Houston rally was _your_ idea,” his mother says, barely paying attention, as she finalizes her speech on the plane to Texas.

“June says you should say ‘grit’ instead of ‘fortitude’.” Bea says, looking up from her phone to point. “Texans love grit.”

“Can y’all go sit somewhere else?” She says, but she adds a note.

Henry knows a lot of the campaign is skeptical, even when they’ve seen the numbers. So when they pull up to Minute Maid and the line wraps around the block twice, he feels beyond gratified. He feels pretty fucking smug. It was a brilliant idea, especially for someone with little to no political knowledge. His mom gets up to make her speech to thousands, and Henry thinks, _Hell yeah, Texas. Prove the bastards wrong._

He’s still riding through the high when he gets back to the Residence, pulling his luggage into his room. He’s ready to get back to something more in his element; revising his novel— a memoir of sorts, filled with letters to lost lovers, his family living and deceased, and one new, anonymous lover. 

Philip is sitting at his desk, and it makes him freeze. 

“How was Houston?” Philip asks, and Henry that’s just a bit, setting down his book bag and his luggage. 

“It was good,” He replies with a smile, making his way over to his bed to take a seat. “What’s up?”

“Martha had me come over to drop this off,” he says, passing Henry a tote.

Henry takes it, and opens it up; a quilt, made up of T-shirts from every U.S. state.

“Aww, you tell her I said thank you.” He says, pulling it out of the tote to drape it across his bed.

“I will,” Philip assures him. “I also had a question or two, if you’re willin’ to listen.”

Philip is quite serious, but he seems downright sheepish right now.

“Sure,” He replies, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Shoot.”

“Do you and Mom ever _really_ disagree on things?” He asks, and Henry hums. Another argument.

“Depends on the topic, but yes. Why?”

“It’s just,” Philip sighs. “It seems like I argue with her more than I get along with her at this point, you know? You'd think we’d have a lot more in common, considering we both went to law school, and everything like that.” He explains. “I don’t know. I love her, but it’s hard to talk to her.”

“I understand completely,” He replies. “I feel like we’ve all been there before. I disagree with her on certain topics, so does Bea. Being the president makes her a hard person to reason with. For instance, I don’t feel that she is doing enough in the area of environmental work. I feel like we have quite a bit to do there, she claims she’s doing all she can with the Senate being the way that it is. We agree to disagree, and don’t talk about that aspect of politics.” He elaborates. “You just gotta get over certain things, y’know? Change the subject— find something new to talk about. I know you’re not nearly as liberal as the rest of the family, so we’re bound to disagree. So long as we make an effort to love one another, that won’t be an issue. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down, Skeeter?”

Philip smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. “I do, bubba. I guess I was just overthinkin’ something small. What on Earth would we do without you to preach common sense?”

Henry snorts. “I’m sure you’d get along just fine.” He assures Philip. “Swingin’ back ‘round for family dinner?”  
  


“Yeah, I’ll bring Martha.” Philip says, standing to put on his coat before hugging Henry.

It’s strange, something they haven’t done since after Henry got out of inpatient for his depression a few months after their father passed away. He hugs him back; fierce and soft. 

As soon as he leaves, Henry assumes his seat at the desk, opening up his laptop, sending his completed rough draft to his editor; he could use an extra pair of eyes.  
  


3 Geniuses and Alex  
  
June 23, 2020, 12:34 PM

Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**juniper**

  
June 🐛   
_Not my name, not anyone’s name,  
stop_

  
Alex 👑🇬🇧  
**leading member of korean pop  
band bts kim nam-june **

  
June 🐛   
_I’m blocking your number_

  
_Alex, please don’t tell me Pez has  
indoctrinated you with K-Pop._

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**well you let nora get you into  
drag race so**

  
irl chaos demon  
**_[latrice royale eat it.gif]_**

  
June 🐛   
_What did you want Alex????_

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**where’s my speech for  
Manchester? i know you took it**

  
Must you have this conversation in  
the group chat?

  
June 🐛   
_Part of it needed to be rewritten!!! I  
put it back with edits in the outside  
pocket of your messenger bag_

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**davis is gonna kill you if you  
keep doing this**

  
June 🐛   
_Davis saw how good my tweaks  
were in the last speech so he   
knows better_

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**why is there a rock in here too**

  
June 🐛   
_That is a clear quartz crystal for  
clarity and good vibes do not @ me.  
This charity event is a big deal, we __need all the help we can get so you_ _don't mess up._

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**stop putting SPELLS on my  
STUFF**

  
irl chaos demon  
_**BURN THE WITCH**_

  
irl chaos demon  
_**hey what do we think of this #look  
for the horror movie premiere   
i’m attending tomorrow**_

  
irl chaos demon   
**_[Attached Image]_**

  
irl chaos demon  
**_i’m going for, like, wealthy  
young widow who lost her  
older millionaire husband   
under mysterious   
circumstances and is now  
seeing a yet-to-be-divorced   
thirty-something mother  
who lives two towns over_**

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧 **  
. . . **

  
_Bitch, you took me there._

  
Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
**alskdjfadslfjad  
NORA YOU BROKE HIM**

  
irl chaos demon  
**_lmaooooo_**

The invitation comes certified airmail straight from Buckingham Palace. Gilded edges, spindly calligraphy: _THE CHAIRMAN AND COMMITTEE OF MANAGEMENT OF THE CHAMPIONSHIPS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF HENRY FOX IN THE ROYAL BOX ON THE 6TH OF JULY, 2020._

Henry takes a picture and texts it to Alex.

_What the heck is this? Aren't there poor people in your country? Also, I’ve already been in the Royal Box._

Alex sends back, **you are insufferable and unbearable,** and then, **please come? for me?**

And here Henry is, spending his day off from editing and campaigning at Wimbledon, only to get his body next to Henry’s again.

“So, I’ve warned you,” Alexander says as they approach the doors to the Royal Box. “Both of my parents will be here. And assorted nobility you might have to make conversation with. People named Basil.”

“I think I can handle ‘em just fine.”

Alex looks nervous. “I wish I had that kind of unwavering optimism.”

The sun over London is, for once, bright when they step outside, flooding the stands around them, which have already been filled with spectators. He notices David Beckham in a well-tailored suit, and sees it was June he was talking to, her face bright when she spots them.

“Oi, Henry! Alex!” She chirps over the murmur of the Box. She's a vision in a sunflower yellow drop waist silk dress, a pair of huge, round Gucci sunglasses embellished with gold honeybees perched on her nose.

“Oh, _shug_ , you look _gorgeous_ ,” Henry says, accepting a kiss on his cheek.

“Why, _thank_ you, darling,” She replies. June takes one of their arms in each of hers and whisks them off down the steps. “Your sister helped me pick the dress, actually. It’s McQueen. She’s a genius, did you know?”

“I’m well aware.”

“Here we are,” June says when they’ve reached the front row. “These are ours.”

Alex looks at the lush green cushions of the seats topped with thick and shiny _WIMBLEDON 2020_ programs, right at the front edge of the box.

“Front and center?” He asks, sounding tired already. “Really?”

“Yes, Alex, in case you’ve forgotten, you are a royal and this is the Royal Box.” She waves down to the photographers below, who are already snapping photos of them, before leaning into them and whispering. “Don’t worry, they can’t quite capture the sexual tension on camera.”

“Ha-ha, Bug. Real fucking funny.” Alex monotones. Henry feels himself going bright red. He keeps his elbows carefully tucked into his sides. Alex does the same.   
  


It’s halfway through the day when Oscar Diaz and Senator Rafael Luna arrive. Oscar, despite his scruffy face and tired of eyes, looks quite soft. Senator Luna’s had a haircut since Henry’s saw him last; he seems rigid. Apprehensive. Oscar has a hand on Rafael’s waist. It looks natural.

“Morning, kids.” Oscar says as he takes his reserved seat next to June. His eyes track over Henry, and he can’t sense skepticism, only curiosity. Perhaps it’s weird that he’s here— Oscar doesn’t seem to mind it. Senator Luna looks sick at the sight of him; he’ll make his best effort not to speak to him.

“Afternoon, Dad,” June says politely. “Raf.”  
  


Beside him, Alexander’s spine stiffens as Ellen and Leo make their entrance, Ellen taking her seat next to him, Leo on her opposite side.

They shuffle through greetings, and awkward mess of hellos and shaking hands on his behalf.

“Alex, _mijo_.” Oscar says. “Good to see you again. You’ve been busy, last year of college and all that.”

There’s an implication Henry hears there. _Where have you been, and what have you been doing?_ Alexander’s hand tightens around the program.

“He graduated summa cum laude.” Ellen pipes up, voice rich and posh and beautiful. “You might know that, had you actually tried to coparent after the divorce.”

“Perhaps if Alexander had made the occasional effort to communicate, _Your Majesty_ , Oscar might not have given up on trying to keep touch completely.” Rafael butts in, and Henry feels the oxygen leave his lungs.

“Come off it,” Alex sneers, looking very much like he wants to wipe the look off of Rafael’s face.

Ellen scoffs. “Real rich coming from the man who was having an affair with my ex-husband months before I served him papers.” She hisses.

“ _Mother_ ,” June warns, sounding cold and deadly. “Knock it off.”

Rafael gives Henry a look; he’s reminding him of the innumerable NDAs he’s signed. Henry makes a point of looking away from him— like he hasn’t got the slightest clue as to what’s going on right now.

Leo huffs, like he’s seen this argument more times than he can count. “Surely this can wait until we’re all inside.”

Apparently it cannot, and they all argue in a flurry of words, leaning over and behind Alex and Henry until the former is red and violently shaking. He stands up a bit too suddenly, shocking everyone.

“Please, excuse me,” He apologizes, dropping the crumpled program in his seat and leaving.

Ten minutes later, Henry finds him in the clubhouse by a gigantic vase of lurid fuschia flowers. His eyes are intent on Henry at the moment, lip chewed the same furious red as the embroidered Union Jack on his pocket square.

“Hello, Henry.” He says, residual anger still lingering there.

Henry takes his tone. “Hi.”

“Has anyone showed you round the clubhouse yet?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well, then.”

Alex touches two fingers to the back of his elbow, and Henry obeys immediately.

Down a flight of stairs, through a concealed side door and a second hidden corridor, there is a small room full of chairs and tablecloths and one old, abandoned tennis racquet. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Alex slams him up against it.

He gets right up in Henry’s space, but he doesn’t kiss him. He hovers there, a breath away, his hands on Henry’s hips and his mouth split open in a crooked smirk. 

“D’you know what I want?” He asks, voice so low and hot that it burns right through Henry’s solar plexus, right into his very core.

“What?”

“I want,” He murmurs. “To do the absolute last thing we’re supposed to be doing right now.”

Henry juts out his chin, defiant and grinning. “Then tell me about it, sweetheart.”

And Alex, tonguing the corner of his own mouth, tugs hard to undo Alex’s belt and says, “Fuck me.”

Henry’s heart stops; that’s not what he was expecting.

“Are you sure?” He asks, double checking. “I mean, we haven’t—“

“You’ve sparked many curiosities within me, Henry.” Alex breathes, unbuttoning Henry’s trousers. “I have bought toys and watched tutorials. I think I’ve got a grasp on as to how it’ll go.”

_Oh, good God._

“Please,” Alex whispers against his mouth. “I need you.”

“Well,” Henry grunts. “When at Wimbledon.”

Alex laughs hoarsely and tilts his head up to kiss him properly, open-mouthed and eager. He’s moving fast, knowing they’re on borrowed time, quick to follow the lead when Henry pulls at his shoulders to change positions. He gets Alex’s back to his chest, Alex’s palms braced against the door.

“Just so there ain’t nothin’ to butt heads about,” Henry says, “I’m about to have sex with you in this storage closet, because you’re mad at your family. That’s what’s happening right now?”

Alex, who apparently has invested in his own travel-sized lubricant, tosses the bottle over his shoulder. “Right.”

“Wonderful.” He muses, gently nudging Alex’s feet apart.

He figures it should probably be funny. It should be mind-blowingly hot, stupid, ridiculous, obscene, just another one of their wild sexcapades to add to the list. And it is— but it also feels like the last time, like they’ll both die if they stop. There’s a laugh bubbling up in his chest, but he bites it back, because he knows this is his way of helping Alex through something. Quiet rebellion.

After, he kisses him tenderly, pushes his fingers deep into Alex’s hair, listens to his final squeaks and whimpers as he sucks the air out of him. Alex smiles against his neck, looking extremely pleased with himself, and says, “I’m quite finished with tennis, aren’t you?”

So, they steal away behind a crowd, blocked by PPOs and umbrellas, and back at Kensington, Alex brings Henry up to his rooms.

His “apartment” is a sprawling warren of twenty-two rooms on the northwest side of the palace closest to the Orangery. He splits it with June, but there isn’t much of either of them in any of the high ceilings and heavy jacquard furniture. There’s more June than Alex: a tan cardigan over the back of a chaise, crystals left on tables and chests of drawers, a painting titled _Portrait of a Lady_ by Sir Peter Lely hanging on one wall.

Alex’s bedroom is cavernous, opulent, and insufferably beige, even for Henry. It doesn’t display his personality in the slightest. There’s a gilded baroque bed, and windows that overlook the gardens. He watches Alex shrug out of his suit and imagines having to live in it, wondering if Alex simply isn’t allowed to choose what the rooms look like, or if he’s just been too intimidated to ask to change it. All those nights his Alex can’t sleep well, just knocking around these rooms, endless, impersonal, like a bird trapped in a museum; like himself back at the White House. 

The only room that feels like both Alex and June is a small parlor on the second floor transformed into a sort of catch-all room. Books and boxes and furniture, and, in the back corner, a piano. The colors are richest here: hand-woven Turkish rugs in deep reds and violets, a tobacco-colored settee. Little poufs and tables of knick-knacks spring up like mushrooms. 

Henry gravitates towards the piano on instinct, sitting down at it and plucking away idly, toying with the melody of an old song by The Killers.

“Play something I don’t know,” Alex says, resting his hands on Henry’s shoulders from behind, rubbing tenderly at knotted up muscle.

He explains that _this_ is what Brahms sounds like, and _this_ is Wagner, and how they were on the two opposing sides of the Romantic movement. “Do you hear the difference there?” His hands are fast, all muscle-memory from what his father has told and taught him, even as he finds himself rambling about the War of the Romantics and how Liszt’s daughter left her husband for Wagner, _quel scandale._

He switches to a Alexander Scriabin sonata, winking over at Alex at the composer’s first name. The andante— the third movement— is his favorite, he explains, because he read once that it was written to evoke the image of a castle in ruins, which he found poetic at the time. Then, without warning, he finds himself shifting to _“Your Song”_ by Elton John. Alexander has started playing with his hair and making an absolute mess of it, but he can’t bring himself to care as he shuts his eyes and plays.

He feels his heart bloom and tries his damnedest to keep time, occasionally growing slow with the grace of Alexander’s touch. He doesn’t stop, or grip the piano bench to steady himself. That’s what he would do if he were here at the palace to fall in love with Alex, not just continuing this international touch-and-go affair where they dirty whatever bedsheets they can find first. That’s not why he’s here; if he wanted a long-term boyfriend, he could go find someone in DC easily. It’s not.

They make out lazily for what could be hours on the settee— Alex wants to do it on the piano, but it’s a priceless antique and Henry’s not about to be responsible for its downfall. Then they stagger up to Alex’s room, the palatial bed. Henry lets Alex take him apart with painstaking precision; he feels less vulnerable when he’s the one being used. He moans the name of God so many times that the room feels consecrated.

It pushes him over some sort of edge, melted and overwhelmed on the lush bedclothes. Alex spends nearly an hour coaxing little tremors out of him, in awe of Henry’s expressions of wonder and blissful agony, ghosting feather light fingertips over his collarbone, his ankles, the insides of his knees, the small bones of the backs of his hands, the dip of his lower lip. Alex touches and touches until Henry’s at another brink with only his fingertips, only the breath on the inside of his thighs, the promise of Alex’s mouth where his fingers had been just a few minutes before.

“Please, I need you to.” He echoes Alexander’s words from before in the secret room at Wimbledon, and he does.

When they come back down, Alex nuzzles against him carefully, draws imaginary shapes on his chest as he shakes and holds back tears; he doesn’t know why he wants to cry— it all felt very good, and he loved all of it. Alex starts snoring almost immediately.

Henry’s awake and crying for hours. It won’t be long until he’s back on a plane for DNC prep, and he needs to rest, but he just can’t. It’s irritability from jet lag. That’s what he tells himself. He remembers, as he blacks out, Alex telling him not to overthink what they have with a warm smile and gentle kisses.

“As your president,” Jeffery Richards is saying on one of the flat screens in the campaign office, “one of my many priorities will be encouraging young people to get involved with their government. If we’re going to hold our control of the Senate and take back the House, we need the next generation to stand up and join the fight.”

The College Republicans of Vanderbilt University cheer on the live feed, and Henry pretends to vomit onto the final draft of his memoir.

“Why don’t you come up here, Brittany?” A pretty blonde student joins Richards at the podium, and he puts an arm around her in a way that Henry considers to be uncomfortable. “Brittany here was the main organizer we worked with for this event, and she couldn’t have done a better job getting us this amazing turnout!”

More cheers. Bea lobs a paper ball at the screen. 

“It’s young people like Brittany who give us hope for the future of our party. Which is why I’m pleased to announce that, as president, I’ll be launching the Richards Youth Congress program. Other politicians don’t want people— especially discerning young people like you— to get up close in our offices and see just how the sausage gets made—“

_I want you to get in a cage match against this fucking ghoul running against my mother,_ Henry texts Alex as he turns back to his desk.

It’s the last days before the DNC, and he hasn’t drank water in a week, or gotten much sleep. He thinks his adrenaline and anxiety are at an all-time high; he’s started getting hives on his arms. Policy boxes are inflowing since the official platform was released two days ago, and Bea has been firing off emails like her life is dependent on it. How they were roped into the campaign, despite both having jobs of their own, they have yet to find out.

He’s been texting Philip all week, ever since the Richards campaign leaked they've tapped an Independent senator and a “respected figure in the Democratic Party” for his prospective cabinet. Nothing’s official, but everyone knows that the Senator is Stanley Connor. If Philip knows anything at all, he certainly isn’t sharing.

It’s a week. Polls aren’t great. Paul Ryan is getting sanctimonious about the Second Amendment, and there’s some _Salon_ hot take going around, _WOULD CATHERINE FOX HAVE GOTTEN ELECTED IF SHE WEREN’T CONVENTIONALLY PRETTY?_ If it weren’t for her morning meditation sessions, Henry is certain that an aide would be missing by now.

He misses Alex’s bed and his body. Alex and a place a few thousand miles removed from the factory line of the campaign. That night after Wimbledon from a week ago feels like something out of a dream now, all the more tantalizing because Alex is in New York for a few days with Pez and Nora to do paperwork for an LGBT youth shelter in Brooklyn. There aren’t enough hours in the day for Henry to find a pretense to get there, and no matter how much the world enjoys their public friendship, they’re running out of plausible excuses to be seen together. 

This time is nothing like the first trip to the DNC in 2016. Philip and Bea had been the ones to introduce their mother before her acceptance speech while he cried and panicked and clung to Shaan backstage. The crowd roared, and his heart had whispered back. He would never have privacy, ever again.

This year, he’s assuming Philip’s place, and they're all frizzy-haired and exhausted from trying to run the country and a campaign simultaneously, and even one day of the DNC is a major stretch. On the second night, they pile onto Air Force one to New York— it’d be Marine One, but they won’t all fit on one helicopter.

“Have you run a cost-benefit analysis on this?” Shaan is saying into his phone as they take off. “Because these assets can be transferred at any time. Yes. Yeah, I know. Okay, that’s what I thought.” A long pause, a smile, then, under his breath, “I love you, too.”  
  


“Anything you’d care to share?” Henry asks, feeling sluggish and lightheaded, making changes to his final draft on his laptop. 

Shaan doesn’t look up from his phone. “That was my girlfriend, and _no_ , you may _not_ ask further questions about her.”  
  


Bea has shut her journal and file folder in sudden interest. “How’d you get a girlfriend we didn’t know about?”

“Y’all, leave him alone.” Catherine interjects from across the cabin.

“It’s long distance. No more questions.” Shaan replies.  
  


Cash then decides to jump in as the resident love guru of the staff, and there’s a healthy debate about appropriate information to share with your coworkers, which is laughable considering what Cash knows about Henry’s private life. They’re circling New York when Bea suddenly stops talking, focusing on Shaan, who's gone completely silent.

“Shaan?” She asks, quiet and timid. “What’s goin’ on?”

Henry turns, seeing that Shaan has gone pale and stiff, a departure from his usual fluid movement that puts everyone else on edge. His mouth is agape. 

“Srivastava,” Catherine pipes up, sounding anxious. “What?”

He looks up, hands shaking. “The Post has announced the ‘popular Democratic figure’ and Independent senator joining Richards’ cabinet.” He croaks, mortified. “It’s not Stanley Connor; it’s Raphael Luna and Philip Fox.”

Henry is so overcome with shock that he genuinely faints whilst on Air Force One, only knowing that he’s tried to stand up, slipped from his seat, and that his mother is screaming before everything fades to black nothingness.

They're swamped by the press as they head to Philip’s hotel in New York. He wanted to go on his own, but Bea insisted on coming along after his little spell. They’d dropped her off with their mom, and Shaan and Cash had stayed with him as Air Force One took them straight to Walter Reid. He was kept for three days due to his severe dehydration, and was told to be taken off the campaign altogether. Catherine promptly fired him, and he didn’t argue with her. He was also given some sleep medication, to help with his late-night anxiety.

So now, after being cleared by a team of doctors, he’s on his way to raise hell. Bea keeps her hand braced on his back— he’s still wobbly and sore. She lets him cling to her in the elevator when he feels like his legs might give out from the strange sensation in the floor. 

After being cleared by secret service, he’s knocking on Philip’s door. It’s answered by the one and only, and Henry wants to lunge for the bastard, but he refrains. The door is still open.

Philip sighs. “You two shouldn’t be here.”

“I need to speak with you,” Henry says anyways, voice low. 

“And you brought Beatrice, because?”

“Because he just got out of the hospital and needed help getting here.” She replies, sounding much angrier than Henry does.

Philip, bristles, eyes widening. “Why were you in the hospital?” 

Henry shuts his eyes. “Please, just let me inside, Philip.”

His brother stands aside letting him and Beatrice inside.

As soon as the door clicks, Henry feebly shakes Beatrice off, summons all the strength he can find within himself, and lunges for Philip, grabbing him by the front of his sweater and pinning him against the wall.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” He shouts, horrifying the disgusting bastard that he at one point considered his only male role model.

Philip tries to push him off, but Henry refuses to give in. “Why aren’t you doing anything?” He hisses at Bea, who’s sat in an armchair by the window.

She laughs. “Why should I? Your wife called me crying because you’ve embarrassed and shamed her so greatly. She sent you divorce papers because you _broke her heart_ by speaking against your own mother and father-in law. You’re shameless, and it’s vile.”

Philip turns back to Henry. “Let go of me,” He says, voice low. “You’re shaking, and you look like hell. Didn't you just get out of the hospital? Sit down first.”

“Fuckin’ _make_ me.” He spits, and Philip does, pushing him off and sitting him down on the edge of the bed.

“Now, why are you here to yell my head off, when you’re the one that told me it was just fine to do this?”

Henry’s brain short-circuits. “I told you it was okay to _argue_ with Mama, dick-for-brains. To _disagree with her_. Not join the fucking cabinet of her opponent.” He groans, putting his face in his hands. “ _God_ , what on Earth made you do this?”

“If I’m honest, Thanksgiving.” He replies, standing in front of Henry. “You know that I don’t support the homosexual agenda, Henry. We’ve been talkin’ about it for so long that I’m surprised you didn’t see me leaving your mom’s campaign sooner—“

“She's not _my_ mom, you bitch, she’s _our_ mom!” Henry exclaims, looking up at Philip who seems shocked. “She raised _all three_ of us, made sure we were okay, even when she wasn’t! It’s not her fault that she shut down after Dad died and you ran to fuckin’ _Meemaw_ for comfort because you couldn’t stand that you weren’t getting any attention!” He exclaims.

“Henry, you sound like a child,” Philip scolds, like the father of a whiny toddler.

“No, Skeeter, you do.” Bea sneers from the back of the room. “You threw your whole life in the trash because you hated one of Mom’s policies.”

“You just made my point for me— it’s just policy.” Philip has the audacity to argue, looking back to Henry, setting a hand on his shoulder. “If I don’t like her policies, I’m allowed to support someone with ideals I agree with, especially if they offer me a position like this, bubba. Remember when you were telling me about agreeing to disagree?”

That’s the final blow.

“It’s not fucking _agreeing to disagree_ when I’m fucking _gay_ , Philip!” He screeches, standing up and swatting his brother’s hand away so quickly that he actually takes a few steps back in shock.

The room is silent, and Philip seems to process it all rather quickly.

“Get out.” He demands, assertive and cold.

Henry doesn’t process it. “What?”

“I said,” Philip repeats through gritted teeth. “Get out of my hotel room. You are no brother of mine.”

Before he can think for himself, Bea’s come up behind him, and is hauling him out of the room.

“Go to hell,” She mutters in Philip’s direction.

He scoffs. “Please, out of the three of us, I’m the least likely to.”

“No,” She says, steadying Henry against a wall as she approaches him. “We have done nothing but love and support you besides our differences. You’re ashamed of us— embarrassed that I’m an addict and that Henry’s gay. You’re literally in the process of divorce because your soon-to-be ex-wife is so fucking _heartbroken_ by what you’ve done. You’ve hurt people, and for that, God will punish you.”

“Beatrice—“

“Keep my name out of your _fucking_ mouth, Philip. I don’t want you contactin’ me, and I sure as hell don’t want you tryin’ to reach out to Henry when the election’s over and done with. None of us want anything to do with you.” She says.

Henry knows that his body is moving, but it’s such a surreal movement, he feels like he’s floating. Bea’s grip on his arm doesn’t ground him, neither does the usual noise of New York when paired with the snapping and whirring of cameras.

“Did you see how _easily_ he cast me aside?” He mumbles, and Bea pauses in the middle of the street. They’re only two blocks away from their own hotel— their mother’s holding a press conference in the same building that the DNC was in a few days ago. “He didn’t even care that I was in the hospital anymore. He just wanted me gone.”

He feels his chest heaving and his eyes watering, and Bea shushes him, rubbing his back. 

“We can’t cry yet, okay?” She tells him, quiet as can be. “People are watching, people are trying to listen in. It’ll make things look good for Richards. When we get to the hotel, we can cry. Okay?”

“Okay.” He replies helplessly, letting her drag him along the rest of the way to their hotel.

She veers for the bar, ordering herself a club soda with lemon, and ordering Henry a glass of water. 

“I find that the ambience of sitting in a bar is often more helpful than any of the drinks are when it comes to dealing with my problems.” She explains.

He doesn’t say anything— he doesn’t know what to say, fingers wrapped tight around his glass as he burns a hole in the bar countertop.

“Are you alright?” She asks, and he turns slowly to her. She looks concerned, like she just watched a little kid fall off a slide at the park. He gets that he’s the youngest sibling, but he’s pretty damn tired of everyone treating him like he’s a child.

“I need to be alone right now, Beatrice.” He tells her, voice straining. 

“Look at me— look me in the eyes.” She says, and he does. They’re watering and he doesn’t quite— _oh, Bea_. “Call me when you’re taking your meds tonight, okay?”

“It’s not like that—“

“Henry James Fox, do not argue with me.” She orders, and she gently brings his head back up when he ducks it down. “Call me, or Shaan, or hell, call Cash. Just have someone help you tonight. Affirmative?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy.” She praises, squeezing him tight. He allows himself to cling to her, just this once. “I’m going to my room.” She tells him. “If you need me, I’m right down the hall.”

“I know, Bea.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The fog in his brain doesn’t leave with her as he raises his glass of water to his lips, sipping it with shaking hands. Everything feels weird— he still doesn’t know what to feel about Philip just throwing him aside. He wanted to cry earlier, now he just feels nothing. He supposes that his emotions are going to go back and forth on the subject; he wishes it weren’t a subject at all. He just wants his brother back.

He wants to call Alex, wants to talk to him and be reassured by the one fixed, constant point in his life. Wants to be _held_ and _kissed_ and _marked_ and _destroyed_ and _ruined_ and then put back together again by some tremendous act of God that will have him crying and seeing bright bursts of stars behind his eyelids.

He finishes his water, and orders another. A voice curls around his ear, soothing, warm, and unique to only one person. He’s certain he’s lost it, now.

“I’ll have a Sazerac, please,” it says, and there’s Alex in the flesh, looking a little tousled in a soft grey button down and jeans. Henry wonders if this is some sort of stress-induced mirage, when Alex says, voice lowered, “You looked quite tragic, drinking alone.

Definitely his Alex, then. “You’re— what are you doing here?” He asks. 

“I’m a figurehead of one of the most powerful countries in the world. I do tend to keep abreast on international politics.”

Henry raises an eyebrow at this, and sighs.

“Fine, I know we’re angry about the same thing involving different people, and I heard about your trip to hospital, and I needed to check in on you.” Alex says. “I sent Nora home without me, because I was worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He replies, going for his water, ice clacking against his teeth. “Speak not the bastards’ names.”

Alex huffs, looking relieved that they won’t be speaking about it. “Cheers to that,” He replies as the bartender returns with his drink.

Alex looks good. There’s pink in his cheeks and lips, a Brooklyn summertime glow that he isn’t accustomed to, but seeps into his skin quite nicely. He looks plush and soft and Henry wants to sink deep down into him, and he realizes that the anxious knot in his chest has begun to slacken. 

It’s rare that anyone outside of Bea comes to check on him. Catherine does when she can, but she’s a very busy woman. It’s by his own design, mostly, a barricade of quiet charm and small bursts of youthful wonder and humble, strong independence. Alex looks like he isn’t fooled by any of that.

“Get movin’ on that drink, now.” He says lightly. “There’s a king-size bed upstairs calling our names.”

Alex smiles behind his glass. “Bossy, aren’t we?”

“A bit,” He sighs, leaning on the bar and watching Alex. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out and comfort Henry. It pains him. He remembers the words spoken into the silence of the garden from months ago: “D’you ever wonder what it’s like to be some anonymous person out there in the world?”

If he’s some anonymous, normal person, removed from history, he’s twenty-three and he’s tired and he’s pulling a guy into his hotel room by his belt loops. He’s got teeth tugging at his bottom lip, and Alex is leaning over him to switch on a lamp, and he’s thinking, _This person is so precious and so dear to me, that I don’t know how I’d ever get by without him by my side._

They break apart, and Alex is staring at him when he opens his eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about any of it?”

Henry sighs, scrubbing over his face, hospital band peaking out from beneath his jumper; he’d gotten released last night, and has been too tired to remove it.   
  


“I—“ He sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. Alex wordlessly moves forward, carding through his hair, head pressed against his toned-yet-soft tummy, feeling every inhale and exhale. “I confronted him today, and in the heat of it all, I came out to him.”

Alexander’s hands still. “What was his response?”

Henry laughs, and it quickly turns into a sob. “I was immediately disowned, and it was heavily implied that I’m going to hell.”

“Baby,” Alex says, and Henry sighs, holding him tighter. “You’re not going to hell. You’re too good.”

Henry laughs, another broken-sounding thing. “God,” He breathes. “When this is all over, I want nothing more than for my book to completely bomb so I can fade into obscurity. I hate politics.” He whispers.

“Shh, I know.” Alex coos. Henry can feel something wet. His tears, perhaps. He doesn’t comment. “I know, love.”

“Tell me about Raf,” Henry instructs, redirecting the conversation. 

Alex groans, but follows through. “My father first introduced him to me when I was twelve. He amazed me— told me stories about the beautiful state of Colorado, told me about the endless possibilities he had as a gay man in that state. I wanted nothing more than to be like him. I saw him as my father intended me to— as another fatherly figure. Then, well, I found out about what my mum had said at Wimbledon, and I thought it was some sort of joke. No,” Alex sighs. “Senator Luna had started an affair with my father. I hadn’t been angry with him— my parents didn’t even live together anymore— I was angry at my father for not telling me anything about it. I still idolized Raf, because he was protecting the rights of women and sleeping at his desk because he wanted children in his state to have free lunches. I thought that, in a world where I wasn’t bound to my position, I could do that. My parents are powerful and intelligent in their own rights, but I could be _him_. I could make a _difference_.” He whispers. “And now I’ve realized that I’ve been worshipping a home-wrecking sellout. Maybe it’s all just a load of shite, and I’m paying for optimism in naivety. I dunno.”  
  


Henry can feel his hurt as he slips his hands up the back of Alexander’s shirt, rubbing his back. Not sensual, but slow, trying to map out the smooth expanse and provide comfort.

“Someone else’s choice doesn’t change who you are.”

“I feel like it does,” Alex replies. “I wanted to believe in goodness, and that he was doing this job because he wanted to do good. To do the right thing most of the time and most things for the right reasons. I wanted to be the type of person who believed in that.”

His hands roam the sharp juts of his shoulder blades, his fingers trace along the ridges of his spine. He kisses his solar plexus through the cloth of his shirt. He looks up, and it’s the most vulnerable he’s ever seen Alex, doe-like brown eyes looking soft and sad and scared. “You still are,” He tells him, pushing strength into every word. “And you are good. Most things are awful, most of the time.” He admits, watching Alexander’s eyes water with tears. “But you, darlin’, you are undeniably good.”

He pushes Henry back into the bed and they kiss until they’re both crying and pulling one another close. They undress, but they don’t do much, mostly holding and gripping each other, trying to ground themselves.

_He is real_ , Henry tells himself as Alexander sucks a love mark into his neck. _He is real, and he is mine._

He kisses Alexander’s mouth over and over again and says quietly, just enough for him to hear, “You are good.”

The pounding on his door comes much too early for Henry to handle loud noises. There’s a rhythm to it he immediately recognizes as Shaan before he even speaks, and he wonders why he didn’t just call before he reaches for his phone and finds it dead. That would explain the missed alarm.

“Henry James Fox, it’s nearly seven,” Shaan says sternly through the door. “There’s a strategy meeting in fifteen minutes, and I have a key. I don’t care what you’re up to, if you don’t answer this door in the next thirty seconds, I will be coming in here.”

He is in fact naked, he realizes as he rub his eyes. Alex is very naked as well.

“God-fucking-dammit.” He curses, vocabulary only expletives at this point. He scrambles for underwear and a shirt. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

“I can hear you, you know.” Shaan points out.

There’s another sound from the door, as if Shaan’s kicked it, and Alex flies out of bed as well. He’s quite a work of art, an expression of bewildered panic painted plainly on his face.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” He says, tossing Alex his underwear, and shoving him towards the closet. “Get in there.”

“Quite,” He observes.

“We can analyze the ironic symbolism later, _go_.” He orders, shutting the door behind him, and the door to his room swings open, and Shaan’s standing there with a cinnamon roll and a look on his face that indicates that he didn’t go to school for six years to babysit the president’s spawn.

“Mornin’.” He says, playing innocent, smiling at him.

Shaan’s eyes do a quick sweep of the room. Sheets on the floor, two slept on pillows, two phones on the nightstand, Alex’s clothes on the floor.

_Fuck, Alex’s clothes on the floor._

“Who is he?” He demands, yanking the bathroom door open like he’ll find someone there, some Hollywood heartthrob taking a shower or something like that. “You let him bring his phone in here?”

“Nobody you need to be concerned about,” He says, voice cracking. “We’ve had affairs before, he’s signed an NDA.”

Shaan snorts. “Yeah, that’s what you told me before you started fucking the Prince of England—“ He says, rounding on Henry.

As if on cue, there’s a series of bumps from the other side of the closet door, and Alex comes tumbling out, halfway into his boxers.

“Er,” He says, blinking up as he pulls his boxers the rest of the way up. “Good to see you again, Shaan.”

The silence stretches. 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Shaan exclaims, taking a bite of his cinnamon roll. “How the _fuck_ are you even here— nope, not a word.” He says, holding a hand up as he chews to keep the both of them from talking, eyes alight with fury. “God, I hope it was _fun_ , because we’re all absolutely fucked if anyone figures out Alex is here.”

“Please don’t tell Mama,” Henry begs, wincing.

Shaan’s eyes widen. “Don’t tell her _what?_ That you’re gettin’ your dick wet with the queen’s son?”

“That I’m gay.”

Shaan’s expression changes completely. “C’mon kid, you gotta tell her.”

“I will,” Henry promises. 

“She has enough to process now without a fuckin’ NATO sexual crisis, so hold off till we’re back at the Residence.“

“Okay,” He sighs, relieved.

“ _God_ ,” Shaan groans. “Every time I see you, I get ten new grey hairs. And _you_ —“ He says, turning to face Alex, glaring and pointing at him. “Need to be dressed, downstairs in five minutes, and on your happy little fuckin’ way back to England, and if anyone sees you leave, I’ll be right behind you with a guillotine. I’ll parade your head through London on a damn stick. Ask me if I’m afraid of the crown.”

“Duly noted,” He says, sounding amused, smirking.

“Wipe that fuckin’ look off your face before I do it for you.” Shaan threatens, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind himself.


	9. Nine

“Okay,” He starts, exhaling. “Okay.”

His mother sits across the table, hands folded, looking at him expectantly. His skin is starting to get that god-awful pins and needles sensation. The room is small, one of the lesser conference rooms within the West Wing. He figures now that this could have been a conversation over a nice lunch, but he panicked.

“I’ve, uhm, I’ve known this about myself for a while, actually. And... well, you’re my mama, and I don’t like keeping things from you, because I love you, and I want you to be in my life.” He tells her. “It also happens to be relevant from an image perspective.”

“Alright,” Catherine says, voice remaining neutral in a way that slightly unsettles Henry.

“Okay,” He sighs, rubbing his hands on the legs of his slacks. “I, uhm,” He sighs again, laughing and shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, my baby.” Catherine replies, her eyes soft. “If it makes you feel better, I think I know what this is about.”

“You do?” He asks.

She nods. “I think I do,” She lays her palms face-up on the table, and Henry lays his on top. He can see the tears welling up in her eyes. “And I _need_ you to know that your brother’s beliefs are not the same as my own.” She says, and he feels his own eyes sting as her voice wavers.

“I know,” He croaks. He’s crying now, but his facial expression remains indifferent.

“ _Oh_ , Henry. Your father would be so proud of you for having the courage to come out.”

And, well, that turns the tears all the way up to eleven, his shoulders shaking as he withdraws his hands from hers to wipe at his eyes.

They’re both messes, wiping at their eyes and laughing and groaning. 

“Enough of the heavy,” She says, handing him a proper tissue to rid him of his tears. “That’s great, baby. I’m so glad you told me.”

He decides to rip off the bandage, release the final blow. “I’m also kinda seein’ somebody.” He admits.

She tilts her head. “You are? Well, you know I’m happy for you, I hope you had him do all the paperwork—“

“It’s, well—“ he interrupts her. “It’s Alex.”

A beat. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Alex?”

“Yes, Alex.”

“Alex as in... Prince Alexander?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Of England?”

“Yes.”

“So, not another Alex?”

“ _No_ , Mama. Prince Alex. Of Wales.”

“I thought you two hated each other?” She says. “Or... now you’re friends with him?”

“Both true, but at separate points. We have a thing, and it’s been goin’ on for around seven months, I believe.”

“I... see.”

She stares at him for a very long minute. He squirms uncomfortably in his chair. 

Her phone and stylus are in her hand, and she’s standing, bumping her chair back under the table with her hip. “I’m clearing my schedule for the afternoon,” She tells him. “I need time to prepare some materials. Are you free in an hour? We’ll reconvene here— I’ll order food. Bring your passports, receipts, and any other relevant documents, hon.”

She doesn’t wait to even hear if he’s free, just walks backward out of the room and disappears into the corridor. The door isn’t even finished closing when a notification pops up on his phone. _CALENDAR REQUEST FROM MAMA: 2 P.M. WEST WING FIRST FLOOR, INTERNATIONAL ETHICS AND SEXUAL IDENTITY DEBRIEF._

An hour later, they’re stuffing their faces with falafel and dolmades, and there’s a PowerPoint cued up. The first slide says: _SEXUAL EXPERIMENTATION WITH FOREIGN MONARCHS: A GRAY AREA._ He wonders if it’s too late to go back into the closet.

“Okay,” she says after a sip of iced tea, her tone the same from earlier. “Before we start— I— I want to be as transparent as possible. I love you, and I’ll support you through anything. But this is, quite frankly, a damn mess, so we need to get all our ducks in a row. Okay?”

The next slide is titled: _EXPLORING YOUR SEXUALITY: HEALTHY, BUT DOES IT REALLY HAVE TO BE WITH THE PRINCE OF ENGLAND?_ She apologizes for the lack of more professional titles. He actively wishes for death’s sweet embrace.

The one after is: _FEDERAL FUNDING, TRAVEL EXPENSES, BOOTY CALLS, AND YOU._

Her primary concern is making sure that he hasn’t used any federally funded private jets to see Alex for exclusively personal visits— which he most certainly has not done— and with making him fill out a bunch of paperwork to keep both their asses covered. It feels clinical and disturbing, checking little boxes about his relationship, especially when half are asking things he hasn’t even discussed with Alex yet.

It’s agonizing, but eventually over, and he doesn’t die, which is a feat in and of itself. His mother takes the last form and seals it up in an envelope with the rest. She sets it aside, and takes her hair out of its impeccably high ponytail.

“I put a lot on you,” She tells him. “But I do it because I trust you. You’re naive, but I trust you, and I trust your judgement. I promised you after your father died, that I would give my life so that you could have a chance at being who you want to be. I’m not gonna be the law-and-order president, or the overbearing mother, who forbids you from seeing him.

She takes another breath, and Henry nods.

“But,” She continues. “This is a huge deal. This isn’t some random bar hookup or an intern. You need to think long and hard, because you’re putting yourself, and even this administration, at risk. You’re young, but this is one of those forever decisions. You need to be ready to spend your life with him, and if you’re not, I want you callin’ it quits as soon as you walk out that door.”

_The rest of his life._

What a horrifying commitment.

“One more thing,” She says, voice softening. “Well, two.” She says, shuffling around in her files to grab something from the bottom. “First and foremost, you know we’re campaigning in California next week, and staying in Los Osos. I wanna meet him. And his father.”

“But his father—“

“I know. He’s seeing Senator Luna, with whom I’ve been in communications with. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he told me he’s not staying on Richards’ campaign for very long. I have no problems with him coming.”

“That’s suspicious as all get-out.” He says.

“That’s politics for you, sugar.” She replies. “Secondly, I know Texas public schools don’t teach sex-ed for shit, and I definitely didn’t give you the right talk, so I just wanted you to be sure that you know you still need to be using condoms even if you’re having anal inter—“

“I’ve been on PrEP for three years now, thanks Mama!” He shouts, tripping over himself to get to the door.

“Wait, honey,” She calls after him. “Planned Parenthood sent over all these pamphlets, take one! They had a bike messenger and everything!”

Henry’s phone alert blares as he dashed down the hallway: _BREAKING: SENATOR RAFAEL LUNA BREAKS AWAY FROM JEFFERY RICHARDS’ PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN._

He has more questions than answers.

**A mass of fools and knaves**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 8/10/20 1:04AM  
to Henry

_H,_

_Have you ever read any of Alexander Hamilton’s letters to John Laurens?_

_What am I saying? Of course you haven’t— I’m the history nerd in our little arrangement._

_Well, things are slow at Kensington, and between Rafael’s wishy-washy political nonsense, and your mother’s re-election campaign, I’ve been running polls and watching CNN and MSNBC for so bloody long that my eyes are burning. I’ve bought and read every last novel suggestion you offered me, and sorted through my things from uni._

_I am bored, and it is agonizing._

_Anyways, I went through my uni things, and I found this analysis I did of Hamilton’s wartime correspondence, and hear me out: I think Hamilton could have been bisexual. His letters to Laurens are almost as romantic as his letters to his wife. Half of them are signed “Yours” or “Affectionately yrs,” and the last one before Laurens died is “Yrs for ever.” I can’t figure out why nobody talks about the possibility of your nation’s Founding Fathers not being heterosexual (outside of Chernow’s biography, which is great btw, see attached bibliography). I mean, I know why, but._

_Anyway, I found this part of a letter he wrote to Laurens, and it made me think of you. And me, I guess:_

_The truth is that I am an unlucky honest man, that speak my sentiments to all and with emphasis. I say this to you because you know it and will not charge me with vanity. I hate Congress— I hate the army— I hate the world— I hate myself. The whole is a mass of fools and knaves; I could almost except you..._

_Thinking about history makes me wonder how I’ll fit into it, I guess. And you too. I wish people still wrote like that._

_History, huh? Bet we could make some._

_Affectionately yrs, slowly going insane,  
Helplessly Romantic Heretic Prince Alex of Founding Father Sacrilege_

  
**Re: A mass of fools and knaves**  
——————————————————————  
 **Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 8/10/20 4:18 AM  
to A

_Alex, Prince of Masturbatory Historical Readings:_

_The phrase “see attached bibliography” is the single sexiest thing you have ever written to me._

_On the dull days where you mention your slow decay in the grand halls of Kensington Palace, I can’t help but feel that it’s my fault somehow, and I’m sorry. I should have known better than to let you spend the night. I got too carried away; I was a fool. I know that Shaan told your people, and that you got put on probation with Zahra._

_I just want to.. I don’t know, extend the option? If you wanted less of me, and more of the freedom that you’re accustomed to— the uncomplicated parts of life, I wouldn’t be angry with you. I would understand. Truly._

_In any event... believe it or not, I actually have done a bit of reading on Hamilton, for a number of reasons. First, he was a brilliant writer. Second, the two of you share an alarming amount of traits: passionate determination, never knowing when to shut up, &c &c. And third, some dastardly, brutish man once tried to impugn my virtue against an oil painting of him, and in the halls of memory, some things demand context._

_Are you angling for a revolutionary solider role-play scenario? I must inform you, any trace of King George III blood you have would curdle in your veins— had it not already done so— and you would be rendered useless._

_Or are you suggesting you’d rather exchange passionate letters by candlelight?_

_Should I tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up each morning, it feels as if I’ve just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all?_

_I think perhaps Hamilton said it best in a letter to Eliza:_

_You engross my thoughts too intirely to allow me to think of any thing else— you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream— and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness._

_If you decided to take the option mentioned at the start of this email, I hope that you didn’t read the rest of this god-awful garbage._

_Regards,  
Henry, First Son of Daft Naivety _

  
**Re: A mass of fools and knaves**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 8/10/20 5:36AM  
to Henry

_H,_

_Please, darling, don’t be stupid. No part of any of this will ever be uncomplicated._

_Anyway, I do hope your novel's coming out soon. You are a brilliant writer._

_Even after all this, I still always feel like I want to know more of you. Does that sound a bit mad to you? I just sit here and wonder, who is this person who knows of Hamilton and writes like this? Where does someone like that even come from? How was I so, unbelievably, horribly wrong?_

_It’s weird, because I always know things about people, gut feelings that usually lead me in more or less the right direction. I do think I had a gut feeling when it came to you, I just didn’t have what I needed in my head to understand it. But I sort of kept chasing it anyway, like I was just going blindly in a certain direction and hoping for the best. I suppose that makes you the North Star, then?_

_I want to see you again, soon. I keep reading that one paragraph over and over again. You know which one. I want you back here with me. I want your body and the rest of you, too. I want to get the fuck out of this palace. Watching June and Nora doing my appearances is bloody torture._

_Please come see me soon; I can’t bear it much longer._

_Yrs,  
Alex_

_P.S. Allen Ginsberg to Peter Orlovsky— 1958:_

_Tho I long for the actual sunlight contact between us I miss you like a home. Shine back honey & think of me._

  
**Re: A mass of fools and knaves**  
——————————————————————  
 **Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 8/10/20 8:22 PM  
to A

_Alex,_

_If I’m north, I shudder to think of where in the Lord’s name we’re going._

_We have this annual thing at my father’s property in California. Whole long week off the grid. It’s a five minute walk from Spooner’s Cove; a secluded, rocky beach, sheltered by cliffs with the most beautiful tide pools. Mama always cooks something amazing. She wants to meet you, and Oscar. She wants to re-meet Raf, too. It’s the weekend after next. If Zahra can talk to Shaan or somebody about flying you out to Los Osos, we can pick you up from there._

_I’m ruminating on identity and your question about where a person like me comes from, and as best as I can explain it, here’s a story, just for you:_

_Once, there was a young peasant boy who was born on a cold, rainy night on his family’s farm. His mother was a scholarly, godly woman, his father a handsome and popular entertainer. As a boy, he was content eating satsumas straight from the tree, tending to the horses and hens with his brother, braiding daisy chains with his sister. He wore linens and ran around barefoot. His hands were calloused, and his face was often smudged with dirt, and at times, he was so happy, he felt he would never grow tired of life on the farm._

_He came from a long line of sturdy, strong men, but never before had there been a man quite like him: born with his heart on the outside of his body._

_When he was small, his family would smile and laugh and tell him that he would grow out of it one day. But as he grew, it stayed where it was, red and visible and alive. He didn’t mind it so much, but every day, the family’s fear grew that the rest of the common folk would soon notice, and they would be shunned by the rest of the village._

_His grandmother, a wealthy woman of brimstone and fire, lived at a grand estate, where she only spoke of the sturdy, strong men of past and present, who were born whole. Who were born right._

_Then, the prince’s father, the entertainer, tragically lost his life in a performance gone awry. He’d fallen from the rafters upon slipping, neck breaking as soon as his skin met the stage. So, when the wealthy woman sent new clothes— a sort of armor— for the peasant boy to parcel his heart away safe, his mother did not stop her. For she was afraid, now: afraid of her son dying upon some sort of tragic impact._

_So the peasant boy wore it beneath his linens, and for many years, he believed it was right._

_Until he met the most devastatingly gorgeous prince from a nearby queendom who said absolutely ghastly things to him that made him feel alive for the first time in an eternity, and who turned out to be some sort of disguised sorcerer, one who could conjure up things like gold and vodka shots and apricot tarts out of absolutely nothing, and the peasant boy’s whole life went up in a puff of dazzling purple smoke, and all the villages and kingdoms said, “I can’t believe we’re all so surprised.”_

_I hope you take up my offer— you deserve to get out of the house for a while. I worry you might burn the whole damned palace down. I can’t wait to properly meet your father._

_I miss you._

_Des bisous,  
Henry_

_P.S. This is mortifying and maudlin and, honestly, I hope you forget it as soon as you’ve read it._

_P.P.S. From Henry James to Hendrik C. Andersen, 1899:_

_May the terrific U.S.A be meanwhile not a brute to you. I feel in you a confidence, dear Boy— which to show is a joy to me. My hopes and desires and sympathies right heartily and most firmly, go with you. So keep up your heart, and tell me, as it shapes itself, your (inevitably I imagine, more or less weird) American story. May, at any rate, tutta quella gente be good to you._

  
  
  


“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Pez says, leaning over the passenger seat. “There is a system, and you _must_ respect it.”

“I don’t believe in systems, ‘specially not on vacation,” Bea replies, body folded halfway over Henry’s, trying to swat Pez’s hands away.

“It’s down to a science.”

“I almost failed every science class I ever took.” Bea tells him.

“It’s all _around_ you, Beatrice.”

“Get off me,” Henry says, shoving Bea off his shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Bea yells, pulling his hair and receiving a very ugly face in response. 

“I’ll show you my dick.” Pez offers him. “It’s impressive.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Henry says, and Bea snorts. “I can practically see it right now.” He continues, gesturing to the pair of lavender purple Nike running shorts.

“Hashtag vacation dick,” He says. “Pleeeeease.”

Henry sighs. “Sorry, Bea, but Pezza did put more hours into his playlist, so he should get the aux cord.”

There’s a symphony of loud, high-pitched noises from the back seat, disgust and triumph, and Pez plugs his phone in, swearing he’s developed some sort of earth-shattering formula for the perfect road trip playlist. The beginning chords of “Life is a Highway” by the Rascal Flatts trickle through the speakers, and Beatrice groans.

“Is it all country music?” She asks.

“You know it, doll.” Pez replies cheekily, winking. Henry can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

The van hasn’t been used since he was in high school; an ancient thing Bea once used to pick him up with his friends from baseball games and practices. Correction, it’s used once a year, for this trip out to Los Osos. He learned how to drive in this dinosaur of a vehicle, and it still feels just right as he falls into formation with two black secret service SUVs and rounds the turn. He hardly gets to drive on his own anymore.  
  


The sky is wide and blue and beautiful for miles, the sun low and heavy with an early morning start, and Henry has his sunglasses on and his arms bare, one resting on the frame of the rolled-down window. He cranks up the stereo and feels like he could lose himself in the wind blasting through the van and everything he’s ever had to endure would be gone, with his mind, with his body, with him.

He tips his chin up to the warm steam bath that is the air in the coastal California regions, catches his own eye in the rearview mirror. He looks flushed and soft-mouthed and young, a Texas boy, the same kid he was when he left for DC. So, no more big thoughts for today.

Outside the hangar of San Luis Obispo County Regional Airport, there’s a handful a PPOs, Oscar in a Hawaiian shirt and Raf in a tank top, and Alex in a chambray with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. He’s got on the tightest little shorts, and has a very fashionable pair of sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose. His Burberry weekender is slung over his shoulder— something out of a fucking wet dream. Pez’s playlist has segued into “Pink in the Night” by Mitski— he thought this playlist was country-only— and a very poignant line stands out to him; _I know I’ve kissed you before, but, I didn’t do it right, can I try again?_

“Yes, hello, hello, I’ve missed you both, too!” Alex is saying from somewhere inside a smothering hug from Bea and Pez; Pez pecks his cheek, it makes him laugh. Raf’s leaning his head on Oscar’s— who has a hand on his waistline— shoulder, smiling as he watches Alex. 

Henry bites his lip and watches Alex squeeze their wastes in return, and then Henry has him, inhaling his warm, wonderful smell, laughing helplessly. 

“ _Drums, please!_ ” Erupts from the van’s stereo and the beat on “Summertime”, leaving Oscar, Alex, and Bea whooping, whilst Henry laughs.

“The hell’s this playlist?” He asks Pez.

“ _Perfection_ , darling.” Pez replies, following after Beatrice, assuming shotgun whilst she assumes the driver’s seat.

Raf’s handshake is firm, and Oscar’s is rough.

“It’s good to meet the two of you properly,” He chuckles as Raf goes around to the back of the truck.

“Hope y’all are ready to fuckin’ party.” Oscar replies, and Henry thinks he loves him already. “I’ve heard a bit about you from Alex. You two seem to be good _friends_.”

Henry glances to Alex. His face is bright red.

Raf comes back around with drinks for the rest of the group— four bottles of Mexican Coke, and tells Henry that he’s looking forward to seeing his mother again before sending him off to the minivan.

Alex is cuddled into his side in the backseat as they cruise along, and Henry can’t help feeling absolutely giddy inside— Alex is in California, his second home. With him. About to meet his mother as his person. As his something. He takes the first sip of his Coke, and melts. Alex is pressing sweet little kisses to his neck, and he feels like he’s reached paradise.

They’re ten minutes away when Alex speaks up.

“Why did your dad own a home in Los Osos?” He asks, and Bea intercepts the question.

“Dad had always been a family man, first and foremost,” Bea explains. “He had to come out to California for work, ‘cause he’s an actor, but he didn’t want to expose us to the hell of LA or Hollywood before we were ready. So, he bought a home near Spooner’s Cove, and we’ve been comin’ here every summer since Henry was old enough to walk.” Bea chuckles. “He also got drunk for the first time out here when he was seventeen.”

Henry groans. “I still can’t drink peach Bellinis.”

Alex laughs. “How many did you drink to get that drunk?”

Pez inhales sharply.”

“Don’t you dare,” Henry warns.

“Eight to ten, we’ve estimated.” Pez announces. “Possibly more.”

Alex is laughing even harder now.

“Did you not feel the buzz?”

“No, and I just kept on truckin’. Even the smell of peaches— I can’t.” 

They pull into a driveway flanked by beautiful pine and Cyprus trees and drive up to the house, same gorgeous, sleek, modern look— the walls are mostly windows. The house is framed by California yarrow and artemisia. His parents had agreed that they could afford to be a bit more extravagant with this one— the farmhouse was for simple living. There’s a lovely, large porch with a bed swing, and there are stairs leading down the little hill the house is on, and out to the beginnings of sand.

The air is thick and smells like his childhood— the ocean and rich botanicals. It chills him, and refreshes him. He can hear seagulls crying overhead.

Their teams fall back to check the perimeter— they’re renting out the place next door for added privacy and the obligatory security presence. Henry helps Raf and Oscar unpack, effortlessly lifting the cooler up onto one shoulder; Alex looks at him like he wants to fuck him right here in front of God and everyone.

“Hi, y’all!” Catherine shouts from the doorway. She’s wearing a flannel, black tank top, and jean shorts. Half of her hair is up in a bun on top of her head, the other half hanging straight down.

Pez makes a beeline for her, swallowing her up in his arms, lifting her up off the ground as she shrieks with laughter.

He pecks her cheek after setting her down, and Bea is right up behind him, swallowing her in a hug as they rock from side to side.

Henry’s making his way up next, and the hug he receives is soft and tender; they’ve been busy the past two weeks. He lingers off to the side when Alex approaches her with a handshake, smiling when Catherine gives him the same treatment as the rest of them, a fierce hug filled to the brim with motherly love.

“Oscar,” She greets as Alex moves over to stand by Henry. “Luna. Good to see you boys out of People, and out of the Senate.” She says, looking to one, then the other. “Get ready to eat good, and get absolutely fuckin’ wasted.” 

Oscar smiles, shaking her hand. “Madam President,” He says, eyes glinting devilishly. “I would be an honor to get shitfaced with you.”

Raf elbows him in the ribs, and Oscar leans down to kiss him. Alex sighs, and when Henry looks to him, he’s gazing down at his shoes. He wishes he knew what he was thinking.

“I can’t believe you went all the way out to the closest store just to buy corn.” Raf says, nursing his beer as he watches Oscar shuck a few ears at the sink as he hums along to an old song by Heart.

“They’ve never had _elotes_ , bebé.” Oscar says, as if this is the most dramatic thing ever said. “I have to make some for them.”

“You do make good elotes,” Raf concedes, coming up behind Oscar and wrapping his arms around him. Henry can’t help but stare. He wants with Alex what they have. Oscar catches him staring, and he turns back to the racks of ribs he’s got spread out on pans on the countertop. He’d offered to give his mom a break so that she could go out and get the fire pit started on the back porch.

Brown sugar. Smoked paprika. Onion powder. Chili powder. Garlic powder. Cayenne pepper. Salt. Pepper. More brown sugar. He adds seasoning until God’s telling him to stop. 

“Did you see Philip when you were on the opposing campaign?” He asks Raf, not looking up from his pans.

He hears him clear his throat. “I did,” He admits, and Henry’s heart drops. “He’s doing fine, if you’re concerned about him.”

“Oh, I know he is.” Henry sighs. “Just double-checkin’. Can’t imagine why’n the hell he’d wanna be in the same room as Richards, but somethin’s gotta be goin’ on.”

It’s quiet for a spell, then Oscar speaks up.

“You know a fighter when you see one, mijo.” He tells Henry. “I saw one in Rafa, and Ellen had the audacity to see one in me. I see it in you.”

Henry snorts. “I ain’t nothin’ special, Mister Diaz.”

“That's what you’re telling yourself,” Raf pipes up. “I got kicked out when I was sixteen. Thought I wasn’t shit, but I found my voice, and I learned how to use it.” He explains. “Alex tells us you’re a writer. What’s that all about, huh?”

Henry sighs. “I don’t think that there’s a single moment where I’m not thinking about him, or writing about him, or just wanting to be near him.”

It’s quiet again.

“Son, we knew.” Oscar says. “I’m gonna be honest— Nora will always have a special place in my heart.” He starts, and Henry chuckles. “But you’re good for our boy. He cares for you. You level him out— soften his rough edges.”

“After, well, after Ellen found out about us,” Rafael speaks up. “Alex and I never really communicated well.” He explains. “He talks about you all the time. Gushes about you to whoever will listen. Did you know that?”

Henry’s face is on fire. “No sir, I did not.”

He can hear the smile in Raf’s voice. “Does he know what you think of him?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Go, then.” Raf tells him. “Oscar and I will take over from here.”

“I couldn’t—“

“ _Go_ , mijo.” Oscar implores, grinning at Henry. “Before we change our minds.” He says, clapping him on the back. “Situations like these— they only happen once in a lifetime. Just remember that Santa Maria is watching.

Henry smiles, cleaning up before heading out back.

They eat later that night, and Henry has never seen Alex more messy than he was whilst eating barbecue; he’s still the most proper out of all of them, but there’s barbecue sauce on his lips and fingertips. His napkins have been abandoned for now, and the sight of Alex being less than perfect makes Henry’s chest swell affectionately.

Bea pulls out the guitar she keeps up in her room here, and begins to play. Pez is already asleep in his little chair, and Catherine is sprawled out behind Bea on one couch, the other one shared by Oscar and Raf, then Henry, and Alex draped over his lap, swaddled in a knitted afghan. Once Pez wakes up, he floats in and out barefoot, keeping their glasses filled from a pitcher of sangria, brimming with orange slices and blackberries.

They play old Johnny Cash songs, Fleetwood Mac, and Joni Mitchell. Henry’s humming every word under his breath, mumbling lyrics into Alex’s ear when he feels daring enough. Bea plucks away at “Annie’s Song”, _you fill my senses up like a forest._

And well, Henry’s so in love that he could just die.

  
Henry wakes up the next morning in his old twin bed, Alex laying on top of him with Henry’s briefs caught on his arm. He kisses his hair, his beautiful brown curls, and shuts his eyes again.

Over the kitchen sink, he chugs a glass of water and stares out the window, sun blinding and bright on the lake, and there’s an incandescent little stone of certainty at the bottom of his chest.

It’s this place— the absolute separation from DC, the familiar old smell of salty water and damp soil and pine needles, the sanity and odd simplicity of it. The memories. He could walk outside and dig his fingers into the flour-textured dirt, or the soft sands, and simply exist. Understand everything about himself. He’s loved Alex for many years— since Rio, he thinks. No, before then. Since he smuggled one of Bea’s magazines into his room when he was still in his early teens, and gawked at a picture of Alex in his blooming adolescence for nearly thirty minutes. Since he pinned him to the floor of a medical supply closet in a hospital. That long. That much.

Alex comes wandering into the kitchen in his pajamas, rubbing at his eyes. There’s an entire breakfast spread going on; yoghurt and granola, fresh fruit, banana pancakes, and a bottle of orange juice is sitting out. Henry pours him a cup of coffee, handing it to him.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Alex whispers, smiling. “Love the apron.”

Henry grins back, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry, I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” He jokes. “My man is handsome, petulant, short, and not pleasant until after nine a.m. Perhaps you’ve seen him around?”

Alex giggles, setting his mug down on the table. “Piss _off_ , five-nine is _average_.”

Henry crosses the room, giggling, and wraps his arms around him, pecking him on the cheek. “Love, you and I both know you’re rounding up.”

Alex hums, getting a hand in Henry’s hair and pulling him down into a real kiss. Alex makes him forget that people will be down for breakfast at any moment, and makes him want to do filthy things— maybe even with this stupid apron thing on— but because he loves him, and isn’t that wild, to know that _love_ is what makes the filthy things so good.

“Didn’t realize this was a jazz brunch,” Pez’s voice says suddenly, and Henry springs backwards so fast that he nearly knocks over a bowl of batter. He sidles up to the long-forgotten coffee maker, grinning slyly at them.

“That doesn’t seem sanitary,” Bea adds with a yawn, plopping down into a chair at the table.

“Sorry,” Alex apologizes, voice warm and soft.

“Don’t be,” Pez tells him. “I’m hungover.” He grunts.

“I’m not,” Bea replies, smug as she reaches for the orange juice. “You do all this, Hen?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She smiles at him, knowing.

That afternoon, they all go swimming down at the cove, yell at each other about politics, and Alex and Raf get into a spat over the U.S’s environmental plan; Catherine and Henry stay quiet and sip their drinks. Alex also takes a photo of himself with Pez and Bea. Pez is holding his chin and licking the side of his face, and Bea’s smiling at the camera with her head tucked into his shoulder. The picture is sent to June and Nora, who respond with keyboard smashes and crying emojis respectively. They all nearly piss themselves laughing.

It’s wonderful.

Henry lies awake that night, tipsy from too much Shiner and stomach filled with grapes and pineapple and he’s staring a hole in the ceiling, thinking of his youth spent out here. He was aloof and unafraid, and the world was in the palm of his hand. Everything made perfect sense. He used to leave his shirt at the shoreline and wade into the open water. Everything was just right.

He wants the gentle reassurance of water around his legs and hands on his chest.

“You awake, hon?” He murmurs into Alex’s ear, feeling him shiver and stir. 

Alex sighs. “Always.”

They sneak past Alex’s PPOs dozing on the porch, and Oscar and Raf in the living room, and take off running through the sand. Alex slides and falls right on his ass. Henry’s cackling when he helps him up. They get to the shoreline of Spooner’s Cove, and Alex throws all of his clothes onto a pile of rocks before wading in.

Henry groans and does the same. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet, you follow suit.” Alex giggles, hopping up and wrapping his legs around Henry, clinging to him. The water’s at Henry’s navel. “Hello.” He whispers, breath fanning across Henry’s neck.

_Goddamn, he loves him._

“Hi,” He replies, resisting he urge to tell him when he sees his soft, ditzy smile.

Alex kicks one of his feet idly through the water. “You look good out here.”

Henry grins crookedly at him, shy, brushing against Alex’s jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathes, twisting Henry’s wet hair around his fingers.

“I’m glad you came out this weekend,” Henry hears himself say. “You needed this.”

“We both did,” Alex amends, poking his ribs. Gentle and scolding. “You carry too much.”

Henry wants to resist, but he doesn’t. “I know.” He sighs. “You know what I’m thinking right now?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m thinking that after the inauguration, some time next year, we could come back. We’d come earlier in the summer, just us. Have the house to ourselves and just forget about everything for a while.

“Oh,” Alex whispers. “That’s a bit idealistic, but it sounds nice.”

“Think about it, hon. Next year. My mom’ll be in office again. There won’t be anything at risk. We won’t have to look over our shoulders anymore. I’ll cook for you, and I’ll show you every inch of California, then Texas, if you’d like. It won’t matter who sees us.”  
  


Alex goes quiet. “It will _always_ matter, Henry.”

Henry pulls back, sensing tension. “Well, you know what I mean.”

They’re quiet for a good while, and Alex, well, his expression isn’t positive. An almost unreadable mixture of fright and dread. Like he might cry if Henry keeps talking.

“Where is this going?”  
  


Henry sighs. “I don’t know. I’m drunk, so bear with me,” He starts. “For the longest time, I divided my day into forty-eight thirty minute sections. Just living to reach the next one, trying to get by one day at a time however I could. With you, I just— I don’t know. I feel like I could do anything.” He explains, and Alex’s fingers are digging into his skin. “Everything feels so easy with you. You have this— this joy about you wherever you go. I don’t ever want to lose that joy.”

Moonlight catches the water in Alex’s eyes, and shines beautifully in his hair.

“Sweetheart,” Henry whispers, swallowing. “Alex, I think I’m in love with you.”

Alex shuts down for a moment, then he’s smiling, and crashes his lips against Henry’s. “I knew you were,” He whispers. It doesn’t sound right. It’s shaky. “I’ve known for months. I know you are.”

Something about this feels off. Alex leans into his chest, kissing his collarbone.

“Let’s get dressed and go back to the house.” Alexander proposes. “I’m knackered.”

They redress, and they set back to the house, and Alex is holding Henry’s hand like a fucking lifeline. They sneak back past the PPOs, past Oscar and Raf, and back into the bedroom.

He suddenly realizes that he’s made a terrible, drunken error. This was wrong of him to do; physical, physical, physical, he’s told himself time and time again. Alex has never wanted anything more than sex. God, he’s just ruined this. He’s just ruined a wonderful, hopeful thing, that’s saved his sanity— amongst other things— more times than he can count. He can see it now; it’s been carried off to the sea on winds of fear and uncertainty.

Alex tucks into bed with him, holding Henry to his chest.

“Goodnight.” Alex croaks.

“Goodnight.” Henry whispers, knowing that he’s ruined any hope of it being the case as he slips under.

In the morning, Alex, Oscar, and Raf are all gone. Henry wakes up with the covers tucked around him, laying on his side; he vaguely remembers waking up in the middle of the night, Alex cooing and hushing him back to sleep, promising him that it was all just a bad dream. Slowly, trembling, he makes his way out to the patio, finding that to be empty as well. The yard, the driveway, the cove— he checks it all. They’re gone. It’s like they were never here in the first place.

He finds a note in the kitchen, ink smeared by fat drops of wetness, paper crumpled:

_**Henry,  
Had to leave early with Dads for family emergency. Left with the PPOs.   
Didn’t want to wake you.  
Thank you, for everything.  
X** _

It’s the last message Alex sends him.


	10. Ten

Henry doesn’t bother with texting.  
  


Neither does Alexander.

He doesn’t particularly see the point of acting like everything’s okay, of trying to brush it off and speaking to him again. His heart feels bruised; all of him does. 

On day one, he brings a stranger into his room.

On day two, he brings two other anonymous men.

None of them give him what he’s craving.

On the third day, he’s talking to his colleagues over the phone, begging them not to publish the book. He knows that he signed a deal, but he wants it struck from the records of reality and time. He thinks he would die if anyone actually read it. The people at the publishing house are hesitant, but agree, telling him that the offer still stands. He sits at his laptop in his desk, and stares at his screen for an embarrassingly long time.

He doesn’t delete the memoir. He’s not sure why; whether it’s the blood, sweat, and tears that he’s poured into hundreds of pages, or the hiccups of hope that leave him sobbing and screaming at night— it stops him from completely deleting the file.

On Tuesday night, he sneaks up to the roof of the Residence, and just lays on his back, staring numbly at the stars overhead. He thinks that Catherine was wrong. His father would be ashamed of him for vying for the attention of a man who takes more interest in his body than his brain, or his mind, or his emotions. _God_ , he would be so ashamed of Henry.

His lips are bitten, and so are his fingers; they snag on the wool of his grey sweater. 

The smell of coffee curls up from the kitchen and it leaves him nauseated, squeezing his head between his knees as tightly as possible.

Torn up and taped-over photographs, all of which Philip just so happens to be missing from.

Bea coming to sleep with him in his room when his Ambien makes him wake up screaming three separate times.

A three-line email, an excerpt dug up from an archived letter, Hamilton to Laurens, _You should not have taken care of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent,_ drafted and deleted.

On day five, Philip makes his fifth campaign stop as a surrogate, the golden boy of the Richards campaign. The statement Rafael gives is— well— Henry doesn’t know what to think of it. He’s not celebrating Richards’ popularity, but he is saying that the Fox campaign should be sweating, and well, polls don’t lie.

Henry reaches an emotional tipping point; he needs to ground himself. He turns on the shower and steps in, fully clothed, and sits down. Wet fabric clings to his skin in the worst way possible, but he can breathe again. Later that day, Martha comes to see him. They cry and scream and drink strawberry wine. He apologizes for being related to shitty her soon-to-be ex-husband. She apologizes for not protecting him better. It’s sad and sweet. Cathartic.

On day seven, he’s cleaning out his closet, looking for another pair of pajama pants to change into, when he happens upon a bundle of silk— the damned kimono Pez had made for him. It hasn’t left his closet since LA. He’s about to toss it in the throwaway pile when he feels something in the pocket; a small folded square of paper. Stationery from their hotel that night, the night everything inside Henry shifted. Alex’s beautiful, messy scrawl.  
  


**_Dear Thisbe,  
I wish there weren’t a wall.  
Love, Pyramus._ **

Thisbe and Pyramus both die at the end; how telling.

He shreds the piece of paper, lobs the kimono into the deepest back corner, and slams the closet door shut. 

He puts all of his throwaway stuff in a garbage bag, and deposits it in the closest receptacle, before he crawls into bed, the idea of cleaning anymore tiring him completely. He draws the sheets around himself. He can feel himself falling apart, unraveling as the minutes roll by.

He cannot and will not give anything ever again.

That is what he tells himself as he falls asleep.

  
He wakes up in the middle of the night to a familiar voice.

“ _Henry!_ ” Alex shouts from what sounds like outside his window, followed by the soft rumbling of thunder.

Dear God, now he’s hearing things.

“ _Henry_ , you fucking _muppet_ , get your arse _down here!_ ”

Okay, so maybe he’s not hearing things. 

He pulls himself out of bed, and strides open to his window, peaking inconspicuously through his curtains. There stands Alex in the rose garden, in the rain. Amy’s holding him back— he looks just about ready to lunge at Shaan. 

“You’re making a scene.” Shaan says placidly, suit still on from earlier today. He must have fallen asleep working on something for Catherine’s campaign.

“Yeah?” Alex asks, still yelling. “How ‘bout I just keep on then? Let’s see which paper shows up first!” He turns to the window and starts waving his arms. “Henry! Henry James Fox, if you don’t get your arse down here _right now—“_

Shaan touches a finger to his earpiece. “This is Srivasta, I am in the rose garden by the West Bedroom, and I am requesting—“

Henry yanks the curtains back and pries his window open, sticking his head out. Everyone pauses, turning to look at him.  
  


“You’ve got some damn nerve coming to my house after leavin’ me like that.” He spits. Alex looks horrified. Good. “For Christ’s sake, what’re you _doing?_ ”

“Tell him to let me in.” Alex orders.

“You wanna reword that?” Henry asks. “I’ll let you get pneumonia; I don’t care about killing the spare.”

Alex looks mortified, sputtering. “I don’t—“ He sighs. “Please, Henry. Let me up.”

Shaan turns to Henry, giving him a pointed look.

“He’s not gonna fuckin’ leave until he gets what he wants.” He sighs, fingers curling around the latches of his windows. “Send ‘em up.” He says, giving Shaan the okay, slamming his window shut and yanking the curtains together.

He goes to the adjoining restroom and grabs a towel, and when he returns, Alex is in his bedroom. No thousand dollar suits or Burberry to be found; just jeans, a ratty pair of shoes, and— is that Henry’s hoodie that he’s been looking for? It’s a familiar shade of blue, and it’s swallowing Alex whole, so he figures it must be.

Without thinking, he steps closer to Alexander, taking the towel in his own hands and pressing it to Alex’s cold, wet face. He’s shivering, and gasping for air. Henry suddenly feels bad for telling him he’d let him get pneumonia. Alex puts a hand on his arm, and he swats it away. He dries his face and his neck and his hair for him, his brain screaming for him to stop and asking him _why, why, why_ —  
  


“God, you make me stand in the rain like a brown John Cusack, and now you won’t even look at me. What happened to First Family hospitality?” Alex sneers.

Robotically, on autopilot, Henry lets the towel drop to the floor, and backs up until his back is pressed against the wall opposite from Alexander.

“You are going to say whatever it is you came here to say,” Henry says, voice surprisingly even and serene when compared to the raging fire roaring within him. “Then you are going to leave, and you will not attempt to set foot in this house again, and if you do, security will escort you and your team off the premises.”

Alex’s face contorts, he’s angry now. “ _Seriously?_ ” He says, helpless and indignant. His clothes are still dripping wet, and he’s still shaking. “A fucking _week?_ That’s all it takes for you to magically get over me? Seven days ago, I was meeting your mum, and you were telling me about the _future_ you wanted with me—“

“I was drunk, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.” Henry retorts, and in the moment, it feels true. He regrets it all. He regrets sleeping with Alex, kissing him, not putting distance between the two of them when he caught feelings. He regrets acting on those feelings. He regrets having them at all.

Alex’s eyes are watering. “So that’s it, then? I don’t mean anything to you?” He asks. “Nothing at all?”

“You really think that?” Henry replies, absolutely aghast by this assumption.

“You’re bloody _acting_ like it!”

Henry has pins and needles on his tongue. “There’s not enough time for me to explain every way that you’re wrong—“

“ _Jesus_ , could you stop being an obtuse fucking arsehole for like, I don’t know, _twenty seconds?”_

There are tears in his eyes, now. “So glad you flew out here to _insult me_ —“

“ _I fucking love you, okay?_ ” Alex yells.

That killed Henry.

Henry is dead.

“No,” Henry croaks, jumping when Alex rips the signet ring off his left little finger and slams down on top of Henry’s dresser. “You don’t. You like the idea of having someone around when you’re bored, or horny. You don’t love me, and I’m honestly offended that you had the audacity to say that to me in my own home.”

“I—“ Alex sputters, and he’s crying. “What are you _on about?_ ” He questions, stepping closer. “You’re nice to me, and you listen. You let me— you let me do all the weird stuff I do, and you don’t even say anything! You’re brilliant and bright, and when you kiss me, my brain goes all funny and you make me feel happy in ways I don’t fully understand. I think about you more than any other thing.” He whispers. “How could I not love you?”

“Do you even know what that _means_ for us?” Henry finds himself asking, not even making an attempt to comfort him. “How am I supposed to believe you, after you left me to fucking rot when you snuck away in the middle of the night?”

Of _course_ I do, you prick. I was _scared_ —“

“Alex, _please_.” Henry begs, feeling wretched, miserable. “Don’t do this. I already apologized. I can’t do this, you know why I can’t.”

Alex swallows hard. “You’re not even going to allow yourself to be happy?”

“God, I’ve only been tryin’ my whole life to get to that point.” He sighs. “Happiness is not my _birthright_ , Alexander. I’m not entitled to it.” He continues. “You said it yourself in that silly little love letter from LA. Thisbe and Pyramus both die at the end.”

“So fucking _what_? Was this just never going to be anything real to you?”

“You’re honestly stupid if you believe that,” Henry hisses. “When have I ever, since the first night I brought you in here, pretended to be anything less than head over heels for you? Are you so fucking _self-absorbed_ as to think that our feelings actually have a say in any of this? We are _public servants_ , Alex. We will live and die by our family names, so don’t you _dare_ ,” Henry sobs, pointing his finger threateningly in Alex’s direction. “Come to _me_ and question if I love you when it’s the thing that could ruin _everything_.”  
  


Alex is petrified, frozen to the spot with tears streaming down his face.

Henry continues, tugging at his own hair in frustration. 

“It was never supposed to be an issue.” He explains, hoarse. “I’d tricked myself into thinking I could have this little piece of you, and just never say it out loud, and you’d never have to know, and one day you’d get tired of me and leave because I’m—“ He gestures at himself. “I’m a neurotic fucking mess. I never thought I’d ever tell you, and I certainly never thought I’d be stood here faced with a choice I can’t make, because I never imagined in, all of our time together, that you could ever love me back.”

“Well, I _do_.” Alex promises. “And you _can_ choose.”

“You fucking _know_ I can’t.”

“You can _try_ , baby.” Alex tells him, and God, Henry wants to get those cold, wet clothes off of him, wants to give in and kiss him until he can’t breathe. “What do you want?”

“I want you—“

“Then bloody _have me_.”

“— but I don’t _want_ this.”

Alex looks like a mixture of upset and angry. “What does that even _mean_?”

“I don’t _want_ it!” He finds himself shouting. His eyes are wet, and he’s afraid and enraged. “Don’t you see? I’m not _like_ you. I’ve already been disowned by my brother— I can’t afford to be _reckless_ like you can! I don’t want to be picked apart and scrutinized by the whole fucking world! I didn’t even want my mother to run for President!” He cries, unburdening his load. “When she won the Democratic primary, I had a panic attack, because I knew that I would never have privacy again! I can love you, and not want a life like this. I’m allowed, alright, and it doesn’t make me a liar; it makes me a man with some infinitesimal shred of self preservation, unlike you, and you don’t get to come here and call me a coward for it.”

Alex takes a breath. “I never called you a coward.”

He blinks. “The point stands.”

“You think I want _your_ life—“

“What are we even doing here, then? Why are we fighting, if the lives we lead are so incompatible?”

“Because you don’t want it, either!” Alexander insists. “You don’t want any of this shite. You _hate_ it.”

“You don’t have a clue as to how I feel.”

Alex scoffs. “I think I have an idea. The lives we want— they aren’t that different. Not in the ways that matter. You want to take what you were given and leave the world better than you found it. So do I. We can figure out a way to do that together.”

Henry stares him straight on. His chest flutters in pain.

“I don’t think I can.” He whispers. 

Alex turns away from him, and Henry can tell that was the final blow. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Fine,” Alex murmurs. “You know what? Fucking fine. I’ll leave.”

Henry bites back an agonized whimper. “Good.”

“I’ll leave, and you’ll never see or hear from me again,” Alex starts, turning back to face him. “As soon as you tell me to go.”

“ _Alex_.”

Alexander is hovering right in front of him, teary-eyed and so unbearably cold and wet. “Tell me your done with me. I’ll get back on the plane. That’s it. And you can live in the White House for as long as you have time, and be miserable, and write a whole book of sad little poems about how I ruined your life. Whatever. Just say it.”

“Fuck you,” Henry says, grasping a handful of soggy hoodie and squeezing, water dripping into the wooden flooring. He will love this man until the end of time.

“Tell me,” Alex says, ghost of a smile on his lips. “To leave.”

Henry spins them around, shoves Alex against the wall, and kisses him, desperate and wild. Alex licks at the seam of his lips, before pushing his tongue into Henry’s mouth, tugging at his hair with both hands. Henry groans, and he feels Alex shiver. 

They grapple along the wall until Henry physically picks Alex up off the floor and staggers towards the bed. Alex bounces when his back hits the mattress, and Henry is crying, a flurry of emotions passing through his head. He doesn’t know if this is consummation, or if it’s the last time. He couldn’t go through with this if he knew it were the latter.

Alex swallows, face softening. His legs spread, and he reaches up, pulling Henry closer by his hips. 

“C’mere.”

Henry fucks Alex like he hates him, until he’s screaming with his face pushed into a pillow to muffle the sound.

Then, he rides Alex like he loves him; he does. Alex is still freezing cold as he holds him and bucks his hips up into him, shushing his moans and sobs while he kisses his tears away.

“I love you,” Henry moans, clinging to him, still crying.  
  


“I love you too,” Alex whispers in return, lips trailing from his neck to his shoulder. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Henry comes with his face turned into Alex’s open palm, bottom lip catching on the knob of his wrist, throat so raw that no sound comes out. His eyes flutter shut as he slumps against him, and he feels so unbearably warm— it’s almost certain that his face and chest are flushed bright pink.

Alex cradles him in an unbearably gentle way, and pulls a sheet over the both of them when his body finally subsides. He wants to say something, but there’s not much to say, so he sleeps instead.

Henry’s bringing coffee into the room for Alex, and is startled by the fact that he’s awake. He offers a wan smile at the sight of his sleepy eyes and frizzy, unruly hair. He’s all wrapped up in the sheets, and he looks stunning in the most raw way.

“Your hair in the mornings is truly a wonder to behold,” is how he breaks the silence. He crosses and kneels on the edge of the mattress, offering Alex a mug. He’s made his coffee the way he likes it; one sugar and cinnamon. He smiles when Alex seems to relax with the first sip, reaching down and palming one of his feet through the duvet.

Alex squints at him over his coffee. “Hi,” He tries, voice husky. “You seem... less pissy.”

Henry lets out a huff of laughter. “You’re one to talk, storming the White House in a fit of passion to call an ‘obtuse fucking asshole’, I believe it was?”

Alex’s cheeks redden. “In my defense, you _were_ an obtuse fucking arsehole.”

Henry takes a sip of his tea, before placing it on the nightstand. “I was,” he concedes, leaning down and pressing his mouth to Alex’s, steadying his mug so he doesn’t spill it on himself.

“Where’d you run off to?” Alex asks when he pulls back, a hushed whisper.

Henry doesn’t answer at first, kicking his wet sneakers onto the floor before climbing up to sit between Alex’s thighs, bracketing him with his full attention, his soft brown eyes focused, his pupils slowly swallowing up the beautiful, dark color.

“I needed a run,” He explains. “To clear my head— needed to figure out what comes next. Very Mr. Darcy brooding at Pemberley.”

Alex is chewing on his lip, and Henry pecks it to stop him. “Where’s this going, babes?”

“I weighed my pros and my cons.” He admits. “Sticking to the plan would obviously be easy and painless and comfortable. It would be fine. Overwhelmingly fine.” He continues, looking squarely into Alex’s eyes and saying, “That isn’t good enough for me.”  
  


“It isn’t?”

He reaches up, touching a thumb to Alex’s cheekbone. “I’m not— I’m not good at saying these things like you are, but I’ve always thought, ever since I learned I didn’t fit into the bracket of normality, I thought of myself as a problem that deserved to stay hidden. Never trusted myself, or what I wanted. Before you, I was alright letting everything happen to me. I never thought that I was deserving of choosing how I lived my life.”

Alex sets his mug down on the nightstand. “You are.”

“I think I’m startin’ to believe that,” Henry says. “And I don’t think this would have happened if you weren’t here to believe in me.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with you,” Alex insists. “Aside from the fact that you’re occasionally an obtuse fucking arsehole, I mean.”

Henry laughs, and Alex pulls him down into a gentle kiss.

“I’m sorry,” He’s apologizing, and Henry’s confused. “For that night in Los Osos. I just—“ He trails off and Henry can tell that he’s getting choked. “I think I was afraid of what falling in love meant for me. I thought, well, since my mum reacted the way she did when Raf and my dad shacked up—“ He pauses, shutting his eyes. “I assumed the worst of her.”

“Oh, honey.” Henry coos sympathetically, playing with his hair.

“So I came out to her, and it wasn’t so bad at all,” He continues. “Her support was overwhelming. She showed me a PowerPoint your mum sent her—“

“Dear _God_ ,” Henry groans, burying his face in Alex’s shoulder. “That’s actually so embarrassing.”

“Our mums are using their combined powers for evil,” Alex grimaces.

“They are,” He replies.  
  


“So, just to be clear,” Alex reiterates. “We’re both in this together?”

“I’m terrified, and the world’s gone insane, but I knew that when I saw you this morning when I woke up, just sleepin’ in my bed, that I wanted to tell everyone I know. I don’t know if we’ll be able to, but... I want to. If there’s any legacy for me to leave, I want it to be true. So, here I am. Take me however you’ll have me. I want you, and I want you to help me try to get past all this.”

Alex takes him in, and the weight of it all sinks in: _this is his forever_. 

“Okay,” Alex says, smiling. “I’m into making history.”

Henry’s smiling too, and rolls his eyes as he leans in to kiss him, and they fall back into the pillows together. His wet hair and sweatpants, Alex’s naked limbs and tell-tale signs that he’s caught a cold, the both of them tangled in warm, humble bedclothes.

When he was young, his mother described love as a thief in the night, sneaking up on you completely and completely taking over every last inch of you. When he got older, he learned that love is a strange thing that could fall apart no matter how badly you want it, a choice you make anyway. He’d never thought that they could both be right.

His hands on Alex are unhurried and soft, and they make out lazily for hours, basking in the rare luxury of it. They take breaks to finish lukewarm tea and coffee, and Henry’s set out some cranberry-orange muffins. They waste away the morning in bed, watching Mel and Sue squawk over tea cakes on Henry’s laptop, listening to the rain as it slows to a drizzle.

At some point, Alex fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket. He’s got three missed calls from Zahra, one ominous voicemail from his mother, and forty-seven unread messages in his group text with June and Nora.

_ ALEX, Z JUST TOLD ME YOU’RE IN  
DC??????? _

_ Alex oh my god _

_ I swear to god if you do something   
stupid and get yourself caught, I’m   
gonna kill you myself _

_ But you went after him!!! That’s SO  
Jane Austen _

_ I’m gonna punch you in the face  
when you get back. I can’t believe   
you didn’t tell me _

_ How did it go??? Are you with  
Henry now????? _

_ GONNA PUNCH YOU _

Forty-six out of the forty-seven texts are from June and the forty-seventh is Nora asking if either of them know where her white Chuck Taylors are. Alex texts back: **your chucks are under my bed and henry says hi.**

After they get off the phone with June, who had to know everything that happened, Alex convinces Henry to call Shaan, not ready to feel Zahra’s wrath.

“Can you call Ms. Bankston and tell her that Alex is safe with me, please?”  
  


“Yeah,” Shaan replies. “Should I get a car ready for him?”

“Uhm,” Henry looks to Alex and mouths, _Stay?_ Alex nods. “Tomorrow.”

There’s a long pause. “I’ll let her know,” Shaan says, voice indicating that he’d rather do just about anything else.

Henry sees Alex’s thumb hovering over the play button of his mother’s voicemail, and nudges him in the ribs.

“Gotta face the consequences of your actions at some point,” He says.

“I suppose so,” Alex replies, his poor voice sounding worse every time he talks; Henry feels for making him stand outside like that.

Henry sighs. “I was told by my mother, that if I wasn’t certain about you, that I needed to end things months ago.”

“Months ago?” Alex echoes, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Henry says, elbowing him again, and Alex lets out a gravelly little laugh, grabs his head, and aggressively kisses his cheek, smashing his face into the pillow. Henry is pink-faced, mussed, and definitely pleased.

“You’re really not frightened of what will happen?” He asks, fingers idly tracing over the softness of Alex’s skin.

“No, I mean, of course I am,” Alex says. “For the sake of your mum, we’ll keep it quiet until after the election. It’ll be messy, but if we can get ahead of the narrative, wait for the right time, and do it on our own terms, we’re gonna be okay.”

Henry stares at him from the pillow. “You’re incredible. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Consciously? Since New York after the DNC. Subconsciously, in complete denial? A very, very long time.” He admits. “What about you?”

“What about _me_?” Henry repeats. “Christ, Alex. The whole time.”

“The whole time?”

“Since the Olympics.”

“The _Olympics?_ ” Alex yanks his pillow out from under him. “But, that’s the—“

“Yes, Alexander. The day we met; nothing gets past you, does it?” Henry scoffs playfully, reaching to steal his pillow back. “‘ _What about you’_ , he says, as if he doesn’t _know_ —“

“Shut your mouth, you absolute _fiend_ of a man,” Alex says, smiling beautifully, and he stops fighting Henry for the pillow, straddling him and kissing him into the mattress instead. He pulls the blankets up and they disappear into the pile, a moaning, giggling mess of mouths and hands, and Henry just knows he’s going to be as sick as Alex tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. He rolls onto Alex’s phone, and the voicemail goes off.

“Diaz, you insane, hopelessly romantic nitwit,” says the voice of the Queen of England, muffled in the bed. “It had better be forever. Be safe.”

Sneaking out of the Residence at two in the morning with no security is the most risky idea Henry has ever had. He had pulled hoodies and hats out for both of them— the incognito uniform for the internationally recognizable— and Bea had staged a noisy exit from the opposite end of the White House while they sprinted through the gardens.

Alex rests against the wall of a building, laughing and out of breath. “God, to think that my first time going somewhere without supervision is with you— bloody amazing.”

“We’re not there yet,” Henry tells him, taking him by the hand and pulling him along. “Keep movin’, you wastrel.”

They make their way through the streets, and Henry keeps stealing looks at Alex. He absolutely precious, looking around at everything with childlike wonder. He tugs him closer, weaving through the streets at a reasonable distance from the lamplights.

“Now, we’re not really supposed to be here, because it’s closed, but we’re just gonna sneak in anyways.” Henry tells him softly, and Alex is gaping at him. “What?”

“You’re _bad_ ,” Alex comments, smirking. “I like it.”

“And _you_ call _me_ the fiend.” Henry snorts, leading him to a path surrounded by beautiful, towering dogwood trees. “This is the Arboretum,” Henry announces. “It’s like an outdoor garden museum. My dad used to bring the whole family up here when Mama wasn’t busy working in the House of Representatives.”

Alex smiles, gazing around. “It’s lovely.” He whispers. He wraps both hands around one of Henry’s arms, squeezing tight. It makes Henry melt. “I want you to tell me everything you know about all this.”

“We could be here for a while.” Henry chuckles.

Alex hums in response. “I’d be just fine with that.”

So, Henry rambles about the dogwoods. And the primroses. And the camellias. He talks about every plant and flower, talks about Bea’s love of the bonsai collection and Philip’s allergies— “ _We always save the magnolias for very last when Mama comes with, because those are her absolute favorite._ ”— and eventually, they stumble upon the ferns and prairie flowers.

“You’re quiet,” Alex teases, slipping a hand over the small of Henry’s back.

He smiles, leaning on Alex. “Reminds me of the blackland prairies back in Texas,” He sighs. “They're always beautiful this time of year. The sun’s always nice and hot, and there’s nothin’ better than finding a nice spot under a tree and just lookin’ out over the meadows— mmph.” He grunts when Alex presses their mouths together, laughing when he pulls away. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know, you’re cute when you talk about the simple things,” Alex supplies. “And I’m, like, ridiculously in love with you.”

Henry rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss him again, pulling away. “I used to have this silly little fantasy when I was a teenager,” He admits. “I’d bring a boy I was madly in love with to this exact section of the Arboretum, and he would love it just as much as I did, and we’d slow dance amongst the ferns and the coneflowers and the asters. Just a... daft pubescent fantasy.”

He hesitates, shucking off his jacket and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He presses a few buttons, and “Your Song” starts to play from the tiny speaker. He bundles up his jacket on the ground, and places his phone on top. 

Alex exhales a beautiful, bubbly, slightly-sick laugh. “I suppose you’re going to want to waltz with me, then?”

“No waltzing,” Henry replies, grinning. “Never cared for it, and I’ve got two left feet.”

Alex extends his hand, and Henry eyes it with baited breath, before taking it and pulling him in.

They kiss, and Henry can remember a verse about love from when he went to one of Waco’s little southern Baptist churches; _1 Corinthians 13:4-5: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs.”_

Henry hasn’t been to church in years, but in the name of the good Lord, _amen_.

He brings Alexander’s hand to his mouth and kisses the little knob of his knuckle, the skin over the blue vein there, bloodlines, pulses, the old blood encased in perpetuity within his warm brown flesh, and can’t help but think about George III rolling around six feet under.

There’s a car waiting for Alex the next morning, and, they’re both groggy from the hour-long walk to and from the Arboretum. They’re both also definitely sick. Henry would give anything to be in sweats and laying in bed, but Alex picked his clothes for the day— a pink polo and some dark-wash jeans— and is looking outrageously handsome himself for someone with a stuffy nose and swollen lymph nodes— corduroy jacket and chinos pairing together quite nicely.

Shaan and Amy are looking at them like they need to hurry up, but the sun’s still rising, and paparazzi doesn’t show up at the residence for at least another two hours.   
  


Alex is busy fussing over his low-grade fever. “I want you to take some medicine as soon as you get back inside, okay?”

Henry laughs, sounding absolutely atrocious. “I’ll probably just sweat it out, babe.”

“ _Henry_.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll take somethin’ when I’m inside.” He promises. “You need to drink lots of water to get the swelling down.”

“I will,” Alex promises, grabbing Henry’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back of it, pressing something small and cold and heavy into it before pulling away. There, sitting in the palm of his calloused hand, is the signet ring.

“What?” He asks, voice scratchy and breaking as it raises in disbelief. “I can’t—“

“Keep it,” Alex implores. “We’re sticking together, through and through.”

It’s incredibly risky, but he pulls Alexander close, swallowing him up in his arms. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

When Alex leaves, Henry heads up to his room, and rifles through one of his drawers. A gold chain with a house key on it; the very key that unlocks the farmhouse in Waco. He slips the ring onto the chain, and lets the chain hang from his neck as he heads to his restroom to search through his medicine cabinet for cold medicine.

They clink together gently as he tucks them beneath his shirt.

Two homes, side by side.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all emails lol.
> 
> TW: talks of racism, homophobia, and depression.

**Hometown stuff**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 9/2/20 5:12PM  
to Henry  
  


_H,_

_Have been home for three hours. Already miss you. This is a load of shite._

_Have I told you lately that you’re brave? I remember telling that little girl in the hospital, Claudette, her name was, about Luke Skywalker. That he’s proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who your family is. Sweetheart, you’re proof, too._

_(By the way, in this relationship, I am absolutely the Han and you are absolutely the Leia. Don’t try to argue, because you will be wrong.)_

_I’m thinking about your election again, and it’s quite the source of stress for me. Catherine is an amazing president, and a loving mother, but Richards just keeps getting on Fox News and prattling on about restoring America to her glory days— back when people like me were killed in the streets and people like us were rolled up in carpets and set on fire. His rhetoric is frightening; white supremacists are quoting him at their rallies and marches._

_I want to steal you away from that place, want to lock you with me in my rooms and kiss you until you forget about every terrible thing that’s ever happened. Wrap you up in my silk sheets and duvet and sing praises to your body and your heart and your mind._

_What I wouldn’t give to have you here with me right now, curled up into my side while we lay in bed and wither away due to chest congestion and low fevers and stuffy noses, bullying each other into taking our medicine, you drooling on my shirt as you snore (you do snore— softly) as my fingers twirl around your hair until I succumb to my own exhaustion._

_Unfortunately, I remain touch-starved and quarantined within the walls of Kensington, alone (at least Mum didn’t kill me for DC), and rooting for you._

_Love you._

_xoxoxoxoxo_

_A_

_P.S. Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf— 1927:_

_With me it is quite stark: I miss you more than I could have ever believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal._

  
**Re: Hometown stuff**  
——————————————————————-  
 **Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 9/3/20 2:49 PM  
to A  
  


_Alex,_

_It is, indeed, a load of shit. It’s taking all the strength I have to not pack a bag and be gone forever. I’m not against living in your room like some recluse. You could have food sent up for me, and I’ll be lurking in disguise in a shadowy corner when you answer the door. It’ll all be dreadfully Jane Eyre._

_The New York Post will write wild speculations about where I’ve gone, if I’ve offed myself or vanished to Basque Country, but only you and I will know that I’m just sprawled in your bed, reading books and drinking champagne and eating petit fours, and making love to you endlessly until we both expire in a haze of lemon, blackberries, and a fizzy pairing of grapes and honey._

_I’m afraid, however, that I am stuck here. Meemaw keeps calling up Mama and asking when I’m going to get a girlfriend, or follow through with family tradition of joining the military. Her husband was in the Marines, my own father had a five-year contract with the Coast Guard, and Philip stayed in the Air Force from the time he graduated high school, until he finished law school. My mother even served in the Army, for a short stint, but Republicans like to forget that when they're busy criticizing her administration and tearing her to pieces._

_I have no intentions of joining, but Meemaw keeps sending an Army recruiter after me, so I’m thinking of blocking her number. I get that we’re a military family— that is the family legacy, but I am a man of self-preservation, not bold sacrifices. My hands were made to hold, not to inadvertently hurt. Please, in the words of southern politicians— keep me in your thoughts and prayers._

_I saw the clips of the rallies and marches on CNN. I’m not going to lie to you, baby. It’s scary. So, so scary. It’s even more frightening when I realize that my brother is campaigning with that dog-whistling fool. My flesh, my blood, capable of siding with fascism and evil, capable of surrendering our democracy to the wolves. It sickens me to think about it. I have faith, though. I feel like my mother can get in another term, keep this country from falling apart. I really do._

_I should bring you to Texas in a few months, when everything calms down a bit. I know you could use a long weekend, and so could I. I could show you the farm house— you would be the first boy to be in my room. Pez doesn’t count; some ageless creature of hedonistic desire that’s been wandering this plane of existence for far too long— his mask is slipping. I still have my high school player of the year awards from baseball on a shelf, they're right next to the trophy I won at the McLennan County Spelling Bee in eighth grade; I bombed miserably at state. You can make fun of my Freddie Mercury and Fleetwood Mac posters, too, or my rainbow-organized bookshelves._

_(I’ll agree with your assessment that you’re the Han to me Leia in that, you are, no doubt, a scruffy-looking nerf herder who would pilot us into an asteroid field. I happen to like nice men.)_

_I’ve thought about making baby steps towards working with my mother again on her campaign, which is part of the reason why I’m staying here. Bea’s been sneaking me policy drafts and stat sheets and assloads of paperwork._

_I miss you terribly, and I want you back here soon; you can help me start packing up in case the world decides it wants to start caving in._

_Yours,_

_  
Henry_

_P.S. From Radclyffe Hall to Evgenia Souline, 1934:_

_Darling— I wonder if you realize how much I am counting on your coming to England, how much it means to me— it means all the world, and indeed my body shall be all, all yours, as yours will be all, all mine beloved... and nothing will matter but just we two, we two longing loves at last come together._

  
**Re: Hometown stuff**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 9/3/20 6:20 AM  
to Henry

_H,_

_I didn’t realize that military work was such a big ordeal in your family. I’m doing research on the American armed forces right now. Please, if you change your mind and buckle to the pressure, don’t join the Marines. They seem to have, well, a large pull against femininity. I’m supposing that would also translate into homosexuality._

_It’s typical for the men of the royal family to serve too, but I’ve already told my mum that I’ve got zero plans to, and she respected that._

_I might be overreacting just a bit, but we’re sticking together, remember? I want to be prepared in case this turns out to be an actual career path for you. Just let me know if I need to start practicing gazing wistfully out the window, waiting for my lover to return from the war._

_It drives me up the walls, the fact that everyone thinks they get to have a say in your life. When I picture you happy, I see you with your own apartment somewhere— maybe you stay in DC, maybe you go to New York, perhaps you even go somewhere a little more quiet, like Vermont. You’re sitting at a desk in a comfortable chair and writing anthologies— stories of queer people from the past and present. And I’m there, too, using you shampoo and stealing your jumpers and jackets, making you come to the grocery store with me, and waking up in the same bloody timezone as you every morning._

_When the election is over, we can figure out what we’ll do next. I’d love to be in the same place for a bit, but I understand that you need to do what you need to do. Just know that I love you, and that I believe in you._

_Re: working on Catherine’s campaign, sounds like a good plan to me. It will give you something to do when you’re sat at that writing desk and working a knot into your neck as you type away._

_I’m still excited for that novel of yours._

_Love you. Give Cathy and Bea my love._

_  
A_

_P.S. Eleanor Roosevelt to Lorena Hickock— 1933:_

_I miss you greatly, dear. The nicest time of the day is when I write to you. You have a stormier time than I do but I miss you as much, I think... Please keep most of your heart in Washington as long as I’m here for most of mine is with you!_

  
**Re: Hometown stuff**  
——————————————————————  
 **Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 9/4/20 7:58 PM  
to A

_Alex,_

_Have you ever been so terribly, horribly angry at somebody, that you say something you don’t mean in the slightest, but you still said it, and you feel like you’ve stabbed them whilst staring them dead in the eyes?_

_Philip called me today, and instead of ignoring him or blocking his number, I answered the phone._

_He tried to make small talk at first, and as pitiful as it was, I entertained it. We were doing so well, and we were ignoring the fact that I came out at all, which was relieving for me._

_I wonder sometimes why I am even here, what is the point of me, or of anything. I should have just packed a bag, like I said. I could be in your bed, languishing away until I perish, drunk and plump and sexually conquered, snuffed out in the spring of my youth. Here lies Henry James Fox, tragically killed by means of autoerotic asphyxiation. He died as he lived: sucking cock and avoiding confrontation._

_I told Philip about you— in a way. No mentions of names, just of, well, you and me._

_We’d been talking about pretty much everything except for politics and my taste for the less fair sex, whenever he brings up a conversation that he and Beatrice, about the trip we had taken out to Los Osos before Mama held her California rally. He’d asked me about the “new friend” I’d brought along with me on the trip. I had frozen up, trying to process what he’d asked, and then said “I brought my partner along with me Philip, and he brought his parents. We’ve been seeing each other for seven months, and I thought it was due time for him to meet our mother.”_

_He started going off on me for no reason like he did last time we spoke about it. He told me that our father would be ashamed in me. So, I lost what little control I had left. I screamed at him through the phone, and blamed him for pretty much everything that happened in the first two years after Dad passed. I blamed my week-long psychiatric ward stay on him, and told him that our father would be ashamed of him for being a walking contradiction to the peace and love he preached when he was still with us. It was so unbelievably out of line. I hung up immediately afterwards and screamed into my pillows for a good ten minutes._

_So yes, I know we’ve been discussing slowly working our way up into going public after the election. I can’t say that this was a good or encouraging sign. I don’t know. I’ve nearly eaten an entire box of banana Moon Pies about it, to keep it honest with you._

_Sometimes I imagine moving to New York to work with my publishing company in person. Just leaving and never coming back. Maybe pissing on a portrait of Ronald Reagan on the way out. It would be nice._

_Here’s an idea: Do you know, I’ve realized I’ve never actually told you what I thought when we first met?_

_You see, for me, memories are difficult. Very often, they're painful. A curious thing about grief and depression is that they take your entire life, all those foundational years that made you who you are, and makes them so hard to look back on because of the brightness and absence there, that they are suddenly inaccessible. You must invent an entirely new system. One that you can use and build around for the rest of your life._

_I started to think of myself and my whole lifetime of memories as the millions of empty rooms in the White House. I took the night Bea left rehab, and I begged her to take it seriously, put in shag carpeting and yellow wallpaper, I painted flowers on the ceiling, and put a golden harp in the center of the room. I took my first time at seventeen with a friend Philip had brought home from the Air Force for New Year’s, found the darkest, most cramped little broom cupboard I could muster, and I shoved it in and locked the door. I took my father’s last night alive, the way the light left his eyes, the feel of his hands, the smell of antiseptic, the waiting and waiting and waiting— oh God, the waiting. And then even worse— not having to wait anymore. My anguished scream as my mother ran down the hallway, hysterically shrieking for a doctor, Philip holding Bea as she went completely numb. I found the biggest room, the East Room, turned off the lights, shut the curtains, and locked the doors._

_But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that out to Jackie O’s garden, and try as I might, I couldn’t dig a hole big enough to bury it. I pressed it into the leaves of the cherry trees, reciting it to the American holly, the sprigs of lavender, the rose beds. It didn’t fit in any rooms._

_You were talking with Nora and June, happy and animated and fully alive, a person living in dimensions I couldn’t access, and so beautiful. Your hair was a bit longer then, at least for a royal. Not shaggy, just... longer. I wasn’t even a president’s son yet, but that didn’t stop you. You weren’t afraid. You told me to give my mother your praises. You said you liked the yellow ipê-amarelo in my pocket._

_I thought, this is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, and I had better keep it a safe distance away from me. I thought, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire._

_And then, I was a careless fool, and I fell in love with you anyway. When you called me at shocking hours of the night, I loved you. When you kissed me in disgusting public restrooms and let me pout in hotel bars and made me feel happy in ways in which it had never even occurred to me that a mangled-up, locked-up person like me could be happy, I loved you._

_And then, inexplicably, you had the absolute audacity to love me back. Can you believe it?_

_Sometimes, even now, I still can’t._

_I had an over-abundance of love for you, boxes full of it. I took all of that love, had it pressurized and soaked in the same foam that birthed the goddess Aphrodite. That love is now a shimmering, white pearl, sat on a pillow of silk inside a little velvet box, hiding in a locked drawer._

_Perhaps one day, when we’re older and settled down, I’ll have that pearl wrapped in a band of gold, and it will find its place on your left ring finger, a symbol of how my love for you is entirely too much._

_I’m sorry things didn’t go better with Philip. I wish I could send hope._

_Yours,_

_  
Henry_

_P.S. From Michelangelo to Tomasso Cavalieri, 1533:_

_I know well that, at this hour, I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live; nay, it were easier to forget the food, which only nourishes my body miserably, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul, filling the one and the other with such sweetness that neither weariness nor fear of death is felt by me while memory preserves you to my mind. Think, if the eyes could also enjoy their portion, in what condition should I find myself._

  
**Re: Hometown stuff**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 9/4/20 8:31 PM  
to Henry

_H,_

_Fuck._

_I’m so sorry about Philip. I don’t know what else to say. I am so, so sorry. June and Nora send their love. Not as much love as me. Obviously._

_Don’t apologize, please. We’ll figure it out. It just might take some time. I’ve been working on patience. I’ve picked up all kinds of things from you, lovie._

_God, what could I possibly write to make this better?_

_Here: I can’t decide if your emails make me miss you more or less. Sometimes I feel like a funny-looking rock in the middle of the clearest, most beautiful ocean when I read the kinds of things you write to me. You love so much bigger than yourself, bigger than everything. I can’t believe how lucky I am to even witness it— to be the one who gets to have it, and so much of it, is beyond luck and feels like fate. Mum’s family might be Anglican, but Catholic God made me to be the person you write those things about. I’ll say five Hail Marys. Muchas gracias, Santa Maria._

_I will never be able to match you for prose, but what I can do is write you a list._

_AN INCOMPLETE LIST: THINGS I LOVE ABOUT HENRY JAMES FOX, FIRST SON OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_

_1\. The sound of your laugh when I piss you off._

_  
2\. The way you smell like Earl Grey and toothpaste, of citrus, fresh cotton, and also sunshine (what kind of magic is this?)._

_  
3\. That thing you do where you stick your chin out to try and look tough._

_  
4\. How your hands look when you play piano._

_  
5\. How scratchy your hands feel when you pin my thighs open and tease me._

_  
6\. All the things I understand about myself now because of you._

_  
7\. How you think Return of the Jedi is the best Star Wars (wrong) because deep down you’re a gigantic, sappy, embarrassing romantic who just wants the happily ever after._

_  
8\. Your ability to recite Keats._

_  
9\. Your ability to recite Bernadette’s “Don’t let it drag you down” monologue from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert._

_  
10\. How hard you try._

_  
11\. How hard you’ve always tried._

_  
12\. How you are determined to keep trying._

_  
13\. How you have the strength to pull yourself out of bed, take your medicine, and do what needs to get done, every single day._

_  
14\. That when your shoulders cover mine, nothing else in the entire stupid world matters._

_  
15\. The goddamn issue of Le Monde you brought back to DC with you and kept and have on your nightstand (yes, I saw it)._

_  
16\. The way you look when you first wake up.  
17\. Your shoulder-to-waist ratio._

_  
18\. Your huge, generous, ridiculous, indestructible heart._

_  
19\. Your equally huge dick._

_  
20\. The face you just made when you read that last one._

_  
21\. The way you look when you wake up in the morning (I know I said this already, but I really do love it)._

_  
22\. The fact that you loved me all along._

_  
I keep thinking about that last one ever since you told me, and what an idiot I was. It’s so hard for me to get out of my own head at times, but now I’m coming back to what I said to you in your room when it all started, and how I brushed you off when you offered to let me go after the DNC, how I used to try to act like it was nothing sometimes. I didn’t even know what you were offering to do to yourself. God, I want to fight everyone who’s ever hurt you, but it was me too, wasn’t it? All that time. I’m so sorry._

_Please stay gorgeous and strong and unbelievable. I miss you I miss you I love you. I’m calling you as soon as I send this, but you know I like to have these things written down._

_I’ll wear the ring with pride, sweetheart. One day._

_A_

_P.S. Richard Wagner to Eliza Wille, re: Ludwig II—1864 (Remember when you played Wagner for me? He’s an arsehole, but this is something.)_

_It is true that I have my young king who genuinely adores me. You cannot form an idea of our relations. I recall one of the dreams of my youth. I dreamed once that Shakespeare was alive: that I really saw and spoke to him: I can never forget the impression that dream made on me. Then I would have wished to see Beethoven, though he was already dead. Something of the same kind must pass in the mind of this lovable man when with me. He says he can hardly believe that he really possesses me. None can read without astonishment, without enchantment, the letters he writes to me._


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw: emetophobia

There’s a thick gold band on Shaan’s finger when he shows up with his thermos and a thick stack of files. They’re in Bea’s room, scarfing down breakfast before Shaan and Bea leave for a rally in Pittsburgh, and Bea drops her waffle on the bedspread.  
  


“Oh my _God_ , Shaan, what the _fuck_ is that? Did you— are you—“

Shaan looks down at his ring and shrugs. “My wife and I had the weekend off together, so we got together and found the closest courthouse.”

“Who is she?” Henry asks. “Also, _how?_ ”

“I don’t wanna hear shit about secret relationships in and around this campaign from you, princess.”

“Point,” Henry concedes.

He brushes past the topic as Bea starts wiping syrup off the bed with her pajama pants. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover this morning, so perk up, kiddos.”

He’s got detailed agendas for each of them, bullet-pointed and double-sided, and he dives right in. They’re already on Thursday’s voter registration drive in Cedar Rapids (to which Henry is not invited) when his phone pings with a notification. He picks it up, scrolling through the screen offhandedly.

“I need you both dressed and ready... by...” He's looking closer at the screen now, distracted. “By, uh...” His face is taken over with a petrified gasp. “Oh, _fuck_ me in the _ass!_ ”

“What—?” Henry starts, but his own phone buzzes in his lap, and he looks down to find a push notification from CNN: _LEAKED SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE SHOWS PRINCE ALEXANDER AT DNC HOTEL._

“Sweet _Jesus,_ ” Henry says.

Bea reads over his shoulder; somehow, some “anonymous source” got the security camera footage from the lobby of the Beekman for the whole week the DNC occurred, before and after the convention.

It’s not explicitly damning, but it very clearly shows the two of them walking out of the bar together, shoulder-to-shoulder, flanked by Cash, and it cuts to footage from the elevator, Alex’s arm around Henry’s waist while they talk with Cash. It ends with the three of them getting off together at the top floor.

Shaan’s mastered the art of keeping his face neutral. “Can you explain to me why this one day of our lives won’t stop _haunting_ me?”

“I don’t know,” Henry replies miserably. “I can’t believe this is the one that’s— I mean, arguably, we’ve done riskier things than this—“

“How’s that supposed to reassure me?”

“I just mean, like, who’s leaking fuckin’ _elevator tapes?_ Who’s _checkin’_ for that? It’s not like _Solange_ was in there—“

A chirp from Bea’s phone interrupts him, and she swears when she looks at it. “Fuck. Post reporter just texted me to ask for a comment on the speculation surrounding your relationship with Alex and whether it has to do with you leaving the campaign after the DNC.” Her eyes are wide as she looks between Henry and Shaan. “Is this bad?”

“It’s not all sunshine and peaches, that’s for sure.” Shaan says. He’s got his nose buried in his phone, furiously typing out what are probably very strongly worded emails to the press team. “We need a distraction. We have to— send you on a date, or something.”

“What if we—“ Bea attempts.

“Or, fuck, send _him_ on a date,” Shaan says. “Send you _both_ on dates.”

“Hey—“ Bea tries once more.

“Who am I supposed to call? What girl is gonna wanna fake date either of you at this point?”

“I have an idea!” Bea finally shouts. They both turn to her, and she sighs, pulling up a photo on her phone. “You’ll hate this, Henry.”

She turns her phone around and shows the screen. It’s Henry with June at Ellen and Leo’s wedding. He’s been a goofball, bowing and extending his hand to June. She's laughing, head tipped back and teeth showing.

“The public loves them together,” She says. “And Alex and Nora used to date. We can imply something, to take the heat off of y’all.”

Henry swallows.

It could work. His social media friendship with June is very well-documented, even if half of it is Colin Firth GIFs. He sighs, looking over to Shaan.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Shaan says. “It could work. Can you get Henry on board?”

He doesn’t want to do this, but for the sake of his mother’s career, he has to.

“I’m on it, boss.”

“This is exactly what we said we didn’t want to do.” Alex says.

“I know,” Henry replies, voice shaking over the line. “But.”

“Yeah,” Alex sighs. “But.”

Bea posts a picture of Henry and June together, and Buzzfeed takes off running with it, digging up photos of the LA outing and analyzing Twitter conversations. They’re going as far as to suggest that Nora introduced them; the fucking _nerve_.

He wants to grab the world by the shoulders and shake them, tell them Alex is his and his alone. Of course, that would be counterintuitive of him, but he can’t help his thoughts and this desperate energy bubbling up inside of him. Everyone seems enamored with the ruse, when the only difference between the lie and the truth that would burn up Fox News is the gender involved. It fucking _hurts_.

Two weeks ago, he was kissing Alex in an exhibit of prairie flowers and thinking that it couldn’t get much better than that. Now, he’s got blistering red hives running up his neck, arms, and back looking at the pictures of Alex and Nora walking out of a restaurant. His hand is on her waistline, and she’s smiling and leaning into his touch. Bea helps him rub calamine lotion into his skin, and picks out a sensible beige turtleneck for him to wear on his date with June tomorrow— it clings to his skin, and covers a good bit of it, so nobody will see the stress rash that shows just how much he’s been dreading this.

Lunch with June is well-photographed, and she apologizes just about a million times. He tells her over and over again that she doesn’t have to. They eat, act a little more than friendly for show, then part ways. Shaan sends him a thread of the date that night when he’s in bed, and he throws his phone across the room, curling onto his side to cuddle with David, who’s already leaning heavily on him.

Alex lands in the middle of the night and isn't even allowed near the Residence, instead sequestered in a hotel across town. He sounds stiff when he calls in the morning and Henry feels exhausted. Alex promises to come see him after his meeting with Pez.

“ _Please_ ,” Henry pleads, on the verge of tears.

His mother, the rest of the administration, and half of the press at this point are caught up for the day dealing with the news of a North Korean missile test; nobody notices Bea lets him climb into her SUV with her. She makes jokes and blasts music, offering him an apologetic smile when they pull up a block from the cafe that Alex and Pez are meeting at.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, staring down at her phone. “Maybe that’ll inspire them to get done early.”

He’s really trying his best to hold back tears. “Thank you.”

She squeezes his hand, and she’s going on a walk with Cash, and he’s alone in a tidy, secluded alleyway with the second car of backup security and a twisted-up stomach.

An hour later, Pez texts him. **_all done darling, he’s on the way right now._**

Cash brings Bea and Alex to the alley together; he’s swapping cars like some kind of political prisoner. He leans forward to the two agents in the front seats; he doesn’t know if they’ve caught on, and he doesn’t really care. 

“May I have a minute alone, please?”

They exchange a look, but they get out, and a minute later, another car is pulling up, and the door’s opening, and Alex is here. He looks rigid and agitated, but he’s here.

Alex slides in, shutting the door behind himself, he sets a hand on Henry’s shoulder, and that’s how it starts. Henry’s hands are shaking, and he’s burning and his breath is coming in shallow gasps— he’s dying, oh _God_ , he’s—

“Hey,” Alex whispers, scooting closer to him. “Hey. Look at me. Hey, I’m right here, love.”

Henry whimpers, clenching his eyes shut and letting tears roll down his face when Alex’s hands form a gentle, protective hold around his wrists. “I _hate_ this,” He sobs, gasping for air. “I _hate_ it.”

“I know,” Alex says.

“I— it— was _tolerable_ before, somehow.” He croaks. “When there was never a possibility of f anything else. But, Christ, this is— it’s fucking _vile_. It’s a fuckin’ _joke_. June and Nora— what? They just get to be _used?_ ” He inhales, his breath catching in his throat and shuddering on the way out. “My grandmother called me and fucking _congratulated_ me. Alex, I can’t _do_ this.”

“I know,” Alex coos, brushing over Henry’s brow with the pad of his thumb. “I know, I hate it too.”

“It’s not fucking _fair!_ ” He continues hiccuping and gasping, voice breaking. “JFK’s father fucking lobotomized his _daughter_ and wanted _Germany_ to win the war, and nobody _cared_!”

“ _Baby_ ,” Alex says, moving his hand to Henry’s chin to bring him back down. “I know. I’m so sorry, lovie. But it won’t be like this forever, okay? I promise.”

Henry closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “I want to believe you, I do. But the fact that we even have to do this is making me feel like we’ll never be allowed.”

He feels Alex rub the side of his neck with such nurturing tenderness, that he lets his eyes open. Alex smiles gently at him, tipping their foreheads together.

“Hey,” Alex says. “I’ll never let that happen. Listen, I’m telling you right now, I’ll fight Philip and that old hag you call a grandmother if I have to, okay? And, like, I’ve seen both of them in photos. I know I can take them.”

“Don’t be so cocky,” Henry says with a small laugh as his last tears slip out. “Mary’s full of dark surprises.”

Alex chuckles, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Seriously.” He says, and Henry’s feeling all heartsick looking at him, so vital and beautiful. He would risk it all for Alexander. “I hate this so much. I know. But we’re gonna do it together. And we’re gonna make it work. You and me and history, remember? We’re just gonna bloody fight. Because you’re it, okay? I’m never going to love anyone in the world like I love you. So I promise you, one day, we’ll be able to just be, and everyone else can rightfully piss off.”

Alex pulls Henry in by the name of his neck and kisses him hard. He finds his own knee knocking against the center console as his hands move up to cradle Alexander’s face. The windows are tinted black, and it’s the closest they’ve ever come to kissing in public, and Henry knows that it’s far too reckless, but all he can think is a mishmash of other people’s letters they’ve quietly sent to one another. Words that went down in history. “Meet you in every dream... Keep your heart in Washington... Miss you like a home... We two longing loves... My young king.”

_One day_ , he tells himself as he clings to Alex. _One day, us too._

The anxiety feels like buzzing little wings in his ears in the silence, like that sound you hear when it’s too hot and the sun’s too bright. It startles him awake when he tries to sleep. David keeps nudging him in the side, and Henry keeps petting him, helpless. He paces exhaustedly up and down the floors of the Residence until his mother finds him and takes him back to bed, tucking him in and sitting with him, stroking his hair. His hives are worse now than they ever were before. It’s getting harder to brush off the feeling that he’s being watched.

**bad metaphors about maps**  
——————————————————————  
 **A** <awales@kensingtonemail.com> 9/25/20 3:21 AM  
to Henry

_h,_

_i have had whiskey. bear with me._

_there’s this thing you do. this thing. it drives me crazy. i think about it all the time._

_there’s a corner of your mouth, and a place that it goes. pinched and worries like you’re afraid you’re forgetting something. i used to hate it. used to think it was your little tic of disapproval._

_but i’ve kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i’ve memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i’m still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria._

_this thing, your mouth, its place. it’s what you do when you’re trying not to give yourself away. not in the way that you do all the time, those empty, greedy grabs for you. i mean the truth of you. the weird, perfect shape of your heart. the one on the outside of your chest._

_on the map of you, my fingers can always find the green hills, fox. cool waters and a shore of white chalk. the ancient part of you carved out of stone in a prayerful circle, sacrosanct. your spine is a ridge that i would gladly die climbing._

_if i could spread it out on my desk, i’d find the corner of your mouth where it punches with my fingers, and i’d smooth it away and you’d be marked with the names of saints like all the old maps. i get the nomenclature now— saint’s names belong to miracles._

_give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. there’s so much of you._

_fucking yrs,_

_  
a_

_p.s. wilfred owen to siegfried sassoon—1917:_

_And you have fixed my Life— however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun around you a satellite for a month, but shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze._

**Re: Bad metaphors about maps**  
——————————————————————  
 **Henry** <hjfox@cfox45.com> 9/25/20 6:07 AM  
to A

_From Jean Cocteau to Jean Marais, 1939:_

_Thank you from the bottom of my heart for having saved me. I was drowning and you threw yourself into the water without hesitation, without a backwards look._

The sound of Henry’s phone buzzing on his nightstand startles him awake, and he nearly slips out of bed as he fumbles to answer it, heart pounding. 

“Hello?”

“ _What did you do?_ ” Shaan asks, voice high and filled with fear and disbelief. By the scuffing and squeaking of shoes in the background, he can assume that he’s running somewhere. 

His heart drops. What _did_ he do? “I’m not following.”

“Check the news, you horny little miscreant— how did you manage to get photographed? I swear to all that is holy—“

Henry doesn’t even hear the rest of his long-winded threat, because he can feel bile rising in his throat and threatening to spill from between his lips.

“Oh, _God_.”

Hands shaking, he switches Shaan to speakerphone, opening up Google and typing his own name.

**BREAKING: Photos Reveal Romantic Relationship Between Prince Alexander and Henry Fox**

**OMFG: FSOTUS and Prince Alexander— Totally Doing It**

**THE ORAL OFFICE: READ FSOTUS’S STEAMY EMAILS TO PRINCE ALEXANDER**

**Royal Family Declines to Comment on Reports of Prince Alexander’s Relationship with First Son**

**25 GIFs That Perfectly Capture Our Reaction When We Heard About Prince Alexander & FSOTUS**

**POSSIBLE NOVEL HINTED AT IN FIRST SON’S NSFW EMAILS WITH PRINCE OF WALES**

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in his throat as Shaan slams the door open and turns on the light, sheer terror on his face. Henry’s brain flashes back to the panic button behind his headboard and wonders if secret service will be able to find him before Shaan gets rid of him.

“You’re on communications lockdown,” Shaan says, and instead of brutally strangling him, he grabs his phone out of his hand and slips it into the pocket of his blazer. He doesn’t even blink at Henry’s half-naked state, just dumps armload of newspapers onto his bedspread.

**QUEEN ALEXANDER!** Twenty copies of the _Daily Mail_ proclaim in gigantic letters. **INSIDE THE PRINCE’S GAY AFFAIR WITH THE FIRST SON OF THE UNITED STATES!**

The cover is splashed with a blown-up photo of what is undeniably himself and Alex kissing in the back seat of the car behind the cafe, apparently shot with a long-range lens through the windshield. Tinted windows, but not the fucking _windshield_.

Two smaller photos are inset on the bottom of the page: one of the shots of them on the Beekman’s elevator and a photo of them side by side at Wimbledon, Alex whispering something in his ear while he smiles a soft, private smile.

They're so fucked. _He_ is so fucked. _Alex_ is so fucked. Oh, God, his mother’s _campaign_ is fucked, and his ears are ringing, and—

Shaan holds the small garbage can under his head as he heaves into it, nothing coming up but clear bile that burns his throat and leaves him a wrenching, sick little wreck of a man. Shaan is ever so patient with him, shushing him and rubbing his back whilst keeping the trash bin steady.

“ _Fuck_ ,” He groans when he lifts his head up. “I need my phone. I have to call Alex—“

“No, you do not,” Shaan tells. “We don’t know how the emails got out yet, so it’s radio silence until we find the leak—“

“The— what? Is Alex okay?” God, Alex. All he can think about Alex’s soft brown eyes going wide and terrified, his father storming the palace to comfort him whilst his mother’s got the place locked down, the two of them getting in a fight— he needs to know if he’s okay right now.

“The president is sitting down right now with as many members of the Office of Communications as we could drag out of bed at three in the morning,” Shaan tells him, ignoring his question. His phone is buzzing nonstop in his hand. “It’s about to be gay DEFCON five in this administration. Your grandmother insisted on booking a ticket to DC from Florida, and Philip’s on the way— oh God, Henry.” He grimaces as Henry starts vomiting into the trash can again. 

Henry gets it out of his system and when he peers up again, woozy and faint, Shaan is there with a white button down and some light wash jeans.  
  


He gets dressed, then flips the newspaper open to the story, his heart pounding. There are even more photos inside. He glances over the copy, but there’s too much to even begin to process. 

On the second page, he sees them: printed and annotated excerpts of their emails. One is labeled: **FSOTUS: SECRET POET?** It begins with a line that’s been ingrained into his brain since he wrote it.

_Should I tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams?_

“Goddamn it,” He breathes, throwing the newspaper back into the bed. “How the hell did they _get those_?”

“Yep,” Shaan agrees. “You dirty fuckin’ did it, kid.” He claps Henry on the shoulder before pulling him in for a hug, and Henry is overwhelmingly grateful for him.

“I need to talk to Alex,” He says for the umpteenth time, voice muffled by Shaan’s shoulder, mind racing. “I can’t even imagine— God, I have to talk to him.”

“Get some shoes, we’re running,” Shaan tells him. “I know you’re scared, son, but priority one is damage control.”

He grabs a pair of sneakers, and they’re taking off as he’s pulling the second one on, running west. His brain is struggling to not give out, running through every possible fucking exhaustive scenario, Alex’s name being scratched off the line of succession for the sake of the crown’s image, his mother losing reelection on a swing state’s disapproval of his sexuality. He’s so fucked, and he can’t decide who he’s most mad at, himself, the Mail, or the whole stupid fucking country.

He nearly crashes into Shaan’s back as he skids to a stop in front of a door.

He pushes the door open, and the whole room goes silent.

His mother, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight that she’s practically got a face lift, glasses glinting in the light, stares him down, then says flatly, coldly, “ _Out_.”

He flinches, hard, and backs out of the doorway, and Catherine speaks up again.

“Not _you_ , dumplin’, get back in here,” She tells Henry, voice much more gentle when she speaks to him. She cuts her eyes back down to the people around the table with her, eyes crackling like white-hot lightning. “Did I not make myself _clear?_ ” She asks. “Everyone out, _now._ I need to speak privately with my son.”


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip is everywhere in this one lol  
> TW: panic attacks and emetophobia

“Sit down,” his mother tells him, and Henry feels dread coil deep within him. He has no clue what to expect— knowing your parent as the person who raised you isn’t the same as being able to guess their moves as a world leader.  
  


He sits, and the silence hovers over them. His mother looks exhausted, glasses high up on her nose bridge. 

“Are you okay?” She says finally, he looks up, honestly surprised that there’s no anger in his eyes.

The president stands on the edge of a career-ending scandal, measures her breaths evenly, and waits for her son to answer.

_Oh._

He hasn’t stopped to consider his own feelings. There hasn’t been any time to. He can’t find a specific emotion to name, and something shudders inside him and shuts down completely.

He wants to be having this conversation in a different life, just his mother sitting across from him at the dinner table, asking him how he feels about his nice, respectable boyfriend, if he’s doing alright with figuring his identity out. Not like this, in a West Wing briefing room, his dirty emails spread out between them on the table.

“I’m...” He begins. His voice is shaking, much to his own horror, and he gives in, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “No. This isn’t how I wanted to tell people. I wanted to have a chance at doing this right, I—“

Catherine’s face softens immediately, and she covers his hands with her own.

“You listen to me, and listen _good_ ,” she says, giving him the same look she’s used on Congress at least a million times before. Her grip is grounding, firm and steady. He wonders if this is was what it was like to charge into war under General Washington. “I am your mother. I was your mother before I was president, and I’ll be your mother even after I’m six feet under the cold hard ground. I was your mother before you were even a thought in my head. You’re my baby, my youngest baby, my sweet son. You are the reason I get up every morning and put on a brave face to serve this country. So, if you’re serious about this, I’ll back your play.”

Henry is silent, blinking away his tears.

_But the debates_ , he thinks. _But the general_.

Her gaze is hard. He knows better than to bring those things up right now. She’ll handle it; she’s President Mama, she always handles it.

“So,” She says. “What is he to you?”

And there’s no room left to agonize over it, nothing left to do but say the thing he’s known all along.

“Mother,” He tells her, and her eyes widen. “This man is my everything.”

Catherine Victoria Fox exhales slowly, and she grins a small, secret grin, the beautiful, flattering thing she never quite uses in public, the one he knows best from when she would ice his bruises from bullies with bags of frozen veggies in a spacious kitchen in McLennan County.

“Then, fuck it.”

The Washington Post writes an article about their emails. They’ve been dubbed “ _The Los Osos Letters_ ”. The article talks about how damning the emails have the potential to be in terms of Catherine’s reelection. 

The Post reaches out to the White House for a comment.

They receive nothing.

Henry is shuffled from room to room in the West Wing for five hours, meeting with every strategist, press staffer, and crisis manager his mother’s administration has to offer.

He can only remember one instance, when he had pulled his mother into an alcove to say, “I told Pip.”

She stares at him. “You told Philip that you’re gay?”

“I told him that I was seeing a man,” he says flatly. “Over the phone. And that I had brought him to Los Osos with us.”

Her eyes widen, and they both hover over the implication before her whole body dissolves itself of the thought. “Your brother, bless his heart, might be a slick little bastard, but he still loves you. He’d never do something _that_ heinous. Even _he_ has a bar.”

He runs through a pros and cons list, models of different outcomes, charts and graphs and more data than he has ever wanted to see about his own relationship and its ramifications for the world around him. _This is the damage you’ve done, Henry_ , it all seems to say, all in hard facts and figures. _This is everyone that you’ve hurt._

He hates himself, but he doesn’t regret it. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he doesn’t regret Alex.

For five endless, unbearable hours, he’s not even allowed to try to contact Alex. The press sec drafts a statement. It looks like any other memo.

For five hours, he doesn’t change his clothes or laugh or smile or cry. It’s eight in the morning when he’s finally released and told to stay in the Residence and stand by for further instructions.

It’s eight-thirty when Bea and Shaan barricade him in his room, because Philip has arrived, and he is spitting pissed. He beats on Henry’s door like a madman, and Bea is screaming at him and threatening violence, and Shaan is sitting in the corner with Henry, covering his ears for him and humming as time ticks by. Henry thinks that he should be very embarrassed, but he’s not. He’s scared, and he’s tired.

Mary is in the White House by eleven, and the vicious screaming stops by eleven-oh-five. 

He pulls himself out of Shaan’s arms, and says something about needing some fresh air. Neither Bea nor Shaan leave his side, walking through the corridors with him. Suddenly, he’s on the ground, and he’s sobbing his eyes out, and wind is rushing through his head, and he’s trying to do what Alex taught him to do, but Bea is hugging him and it all hurts so bad. He whimpers and squeezes his hands into fists until his hands are shaking and cramping up.

Big breath for seven.

Hold for eight.

Let it all out for eleven.

Repeat.

He’s mentally coherent again when he’s been moved to his room, to his bed— which is still covered in the _fucking_ newspapers— and someone guides him down onto it, cradles his head until it’s resting on the pillows. They bandage his hands, that are scratched up from his fingernails. They tuck the blankets up to his chin, and turn off the lights when they leave.

He sleeps in fits and starts, wakes up sweating and shivering. He dreams in short, fractured scenes that swell and fade erratically. He dreams of Alex singing him to sleep as he lays in a field, choking on his own blood. He dreams of a house in McLennan County, doors locked, his hands burning when he tries to turn the knob. He dreams of a crown. He dreams of drowning.

He dreams, briefly, of the Los Osos house, shining brilliantly in the pale moonlight. He sees Alex, naked, wading into the water at the cove. He hears the snapping of branches, as he wades into the water.

“Look,” Alex tells him, pointing up at the stars.

“Don’t you _hear_ it?” Henry asks, the snapping getting louder and closer. “Something’s _coming_.”

It gets louder and faster and closer, like someone is cracking a whip in his ears, until everything fades to black, and his eyes shoot open, ears ringing.

Bea is sitting up beside him, leaning against the pillows. Her hair is in two braids, and she’s wearing a pair of men’s camo pajamas from Bass Pro Shops. She shushes him back to sleep, running her fingers through his hair.

Any thoughts he has fold like a card house, and he’s snoring and drooling on the pillows.

Between dreams he catches the sound of muffled voices in the hallway.

“Nothing,” Shaan’s voice is saying. “Not a thing. Nobody is taking our calls.”

“How can they not be taking our calls? I’m the president of the United States of Goddamn-Motherfucking America.”

“Permission to call my wife, ma’am? I think if we override the system and go straight to her, we can get what we need.”

Henry still doesn’t have his phone back; he tells Shaan to keep it. He’s seen enough looking over Bea’s shoulder.

A comment: _The First Family Has Been Lying To Us, The American People!!1 WHAT ELSE Are They Lying About??!?!_

A tweet: _I KNEW IT I KNEW HENRY WAS GAY I TOLD YOU BITCHES_

A comment: _My 12 y/o daughter has been crying all day. She’s dreamt of marrying Prince Alexander since she was a little girl. She is heartbroken._

A comment: _Are we really supposed to believe no federal funds were used to cover this up?_

A tweet: _lmaoooo wait look at page 22 of the emails alex is such a hoe_

A tweet: _OMFG DID YOU SEE somebody who went to Columbia with Henry posted some photos of him at a party and he is just like Profoundly Gay in them i’m screaming_

A tweet: _READ— My column with @WSJ on what the #LosOsosLetters say about the inner workings of the Fox White House._

More comments. Slurs. Lies. Death threats.

Shaan is back to holding a trash can under his mouth, and Bea is back to smearing calamine lotion all over his skin with an applicator.

They force him to eat and drink, and he only throws up once in the next thirty minutes. Shaan makes him eat again— toast, and drink Gatorade. 

It feels like some archaic form of torture.

Shaan has to leave for a meeting, and gives Bea a detailed list of instructions on how to handle him. As if he’s some sort of pet. As if she hasn’t been taking care of him for their entire lives.

She sneaks her guitar into his room, and starts playing softly, trying to lull him to sleep.

Instead, he sits up and listens, David on his chest and Mr. Wobbles on his tummy.

“Can you play Joni for me?” Henry asks, feeble.

“Will you go to sleep after?” She asks. “I know you’re tired, pumpkin.”

“I’ll try,” He croaks, smiling when Bea starts playing the opening of “Case of You”.

  
Suddenly, Shaan comes bursting into the bedroom, waving Henry’s phone around in the air. “Phone’s for you!”

“Tell them to call back later,” He tells him, petting David when he burrows into his chest.

“This is kind of important,” Shaan says, and Henry sighs, holding out his hand, accepting the phone, holding it up to his ear.

“Hello?” He asks, shaky and confused.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Alex’s voice says, exhausted and relieved and posh over the line, and Henry immediately starts crying.

He exhales deeply. “Hi, honey. Are you okay?”

Alex laughs wetly. “Bloody _hell_ , are you _kidding_ me? I’m fine, I’m fine, are _you_ okay?”

“I’m...” Henry pauses, hiccuping and sniffling. “I’m just trying my best right now.”

Alex hums sympathetically. “How bad is it?”

“Philip and my grandmother are both here. Mary has yet to come in contact with me. Philip has tried to storm my room several times.” He says, leaving out the more ugly bits on purpose. “But, uhm, other than that. All things considered. It’s, uhm.”

“I know,” Alex coos. “I know. I’ll be there soon.”

Henry’s breath shakes before he speaks. “I’m not sorry,” He admits. “That people know.”

“Henry,” Alex attempts. “I...”

“Maybe—“

“I’ve already spoken with Mum—“

“I know the timing isn’t ideal—“

“Would you—“

“I want—“

“Hang on,” Alex hushes him, voice warm and low. “Are we. Erm. Are we both asking the same thing?”  
  


“Depends. We’re you gonna ask me if I wanna tell the truth?”

“Yes,” Alex says, and Henry’s hand hurts from gripping the phone so hard. “I was, yes.”

“Then, yes.”

A breath, barely. “You want that?”

Henry makes sure his voice is level, still sniffling. “I don’t know if I would have chosen it yet, but it’s out there now, and... I won’t lie. Not about this. Not about you.”

He hears Alex gasping wetly, and he’s crying yet again.

“I fucking love you.” Alex tells him, sounding very tearful.

Henry sobs. “I love you, too.”

“Just hold on until I get there; we’re going to figure this out.”

Henry nods. “I will.”

“I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.”

Henry exhales a wet, broken laugh. “Please, please hurry.”

They hang up, and Henry looks to Shaan, setting his phone on the nightstand.

“Thank you, Shaan.”

Shaan snorts. Henry notices that his eyes are watering. “Stop.”

“Really, though. You didn’t—“  
  


“Uh-uh. Don’t thank me. You can thank my wife when she gets here.”

Henry smiles. “I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds like an angel.”

Shaan sighs, and it tapers off into a giggle as he sips from his thermos. “Debatable.”

  
Philip tries to weasel his way into Henry’s room every few hours.

On one such occasion, Bea sets her guitar down, goes outside, beats his ass, and tells him to stay away, lest he starts craving a second beating.

She allows Henry some supervised drinking from a bottle of brandy afterwards.

Bea grabs her guitar when the door is knocked upon next, and Henry takes a generous swing of brandy. 

“I fuckin’ _told_ you to _steer clear_ —“ she threatens, brandishing the instrument over her shoulder. She drops it almost immediately. “Oh, Alex, I am _so_ sorry, I thought you were Philip.” She apologizes, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him in, and shutting the door. “Thank _God_ you’re here, I was boutta come and get you myself.”

She releases him, and Henry can finally see him— stupidly overdressed, red-rimmed eyes and cracked lips— still unbelievably beautiful.

Still his baby.

He smiles at him, weakly, and says, “Bit short for a stormtrooper.”

Alex sobs, and it’s impossible to know if he moves first, or if Henry does, but they meet in the middle of Henry’s bedroom, his arms around Alex’s neck, swallowing him up. Alex’s voice was a tether, and his body is the gravity that makes it possible. His hand grips the back of his neck like a magnetic force, a permanent compass north.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says miserably, earnestly, against his throat. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

Henry pulls away, hands on his shoulders, jaw set. “Don’t you dare. I’m not sorry at all.”

Alex laughs again, eyes watering as he surveys Henry further. “You’re unbelievable,” he muses, kissing the underside of Henry’s jaw. He pushes his nose and cheek into it, and Henry finds himself loosening up a bit. “You know that?”

They spread all of Martha’s quilts and afghans out on the bedroom floor, and Henry winds up with his head in Alex’s lap. Bea’s sat on the little couch, playing her autoharp. She's replaced the brandy with soothing stuff for Henry’s stomach— fruit and crackers.

Meemaw, from what Bea has told them, sounds absolutely pissed— not just to have a final confirmation about him— but to learn about it via tabloid scandal. Philip’s proposed ‘talks of consequences’ and ‘polite, honest chats’ have gone nowhere, thanks to Beatrice. Catherine has come in several times, whilst he was sleeping, and just laid with him and held him, sung to him, recited Emily Dickinson beneath her breath to him.

“Are you alright, dear?” Alex asks Bea, Henry listening whilst half-asleep. “I know— I saw a few articles...” he trails off. “Powder Princess“ was trending on Twitter ten hours ago.

“Me?” She asks. “Honestly, it’s almost a relief. It’s all out in the open; I don’t have to lie to cover my ass. I’d rather have said it myself, of course. But, here we are. At least I can stop pretending to be ashamed now.”

“I know the feeling.” Henry says softly, drifting off to sleep soon after.

“It’s _foolishness_ , Henry,” Philip is saying. “You’re too young to understand.”

Alex looks furious.

There was a plate of warm banana nut muffins and a note left on a tray table in his room— Bea had gone to meet with Catherine— and suddenly, Philip bursts into his room, uncombed hair and askew suit, shouting at Henry about the nerve to break the communications embargo, to bring Alex here while the Residence is being watched, to keep embarrassing the family.

“I am twenty-three _goddamn_ years old,” Henry says. “Our parents were twenty four when they met.”

“And you think that was _wise?”_ Philip spits nastily. “Marrying a man who spent half our childhoods making action movies, who got sick and _left_ us, and Mom—“

“Don’t you _fucking dare_ ,” Henry hisses, flaring daggers at him. “I swear to God himself, I will end you. Just because your obsession with family legacy didn’t impress _him_ —“

“You clearly don’t know the first fucking thing about legacy if you just let something like _this_ happen,” Philip snaps. “The only thing to do now is bury it and hope that people will somehow believe that none of it was real. That is your duty. It’s the _least_ you can do.”

“One could argue that the least _you_ could do,” Henry starts, inching forward. “Is stop being a bigoted little bitch.”

“I don’t _care_ if you’re _gay_ ,” Philip scoffs, although Henry knows he’s lying— he just disowned him for being gay a few months back. He remembers it, clear as crystal. “I care that you made this choice, with _him_ ”— he cuts his eyes sharply to Alex as if he finally exists— “someone with a fucking target on his back, to be so stupid and naive and _selfish_ as to think it wouldn’t completely fuck us all.”

“I knew it would ruin everything. I was terrified of this happening, but how could I have predicted?” Henry demands to know. “Tell me how.”

“Naive,” Philip repeats. “This is the life we've lived for years, Henry. I’ve _tried_ to tell you. I wanted to be a good brother to you, but you never fucking _listen_. It’s time to remember your place in this family. Be a man. Stand up and take responsibility. Fix this. For once in your life, don’t be a _coward_ —“

Before Henry can stop himself, he hears the deafening crack of his hand against Philip’s left cheek. Philip looks stunned. So does Alex.

“Don’t come into _my_ room,” He starts, voice low. “And call _me_ a coward. Not when _you_ betrayed the woman who held you in her for nine months, who tucked you in at night, who gave you _life_ — to work for a white supremacist. You can excuse racism, but not the fact that I’m in a loving, consenting relationship with a man? You’re _pathetic_ , and you sicken me beyond all rhyme and reason. You’re the stain on the family name. Not me. Get the hell out of my sight.” He spits.

Philip’s mouth is hanging open, and Alex speaks up. 

“For what it’s worth,” He starts, taking a step forward, taking Henry’s hand in his. “He’s the bravest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

Philip leaves wordlessly.

Later, after Henry and Bea probs Shaan and Zahra on their relationship, Catherine calls a meeting in a West Wing conference room.

When she walks in, she’s dressed casually for the first time in four years— a well-loved maroon sweater and cuffed jeans. 

She turns to them, and her face flutters from stressed to gentle. 

“Hi, my baby,” she whispers, approaching Henry. 

He stands, and hugs her, lets her kiss his cheek. He feels like a little kid again, waking up from a bad, bad dream. 

He pulls away, and gestures to Alex. “Mama, this is Alex,” he adds. He knows they’ve met before, but he feels that this appropriate. “My boyfriend.”

She turns to Alex, who’s standing now, and kisses his cheek. “It’s good to finally meet you, darlin’. This certainly hasn’t been the traditional introduction, and we’ve done this before, but you get the picture.” She laughs. “Thank you, for taking care of my son.”

Bea is close behind, hair unbrushed, in a yellow tank top and white pajama shorts. He locks eyes with Shaan, then Zahra, and he knows that they’re in the most capable hands possible.

“What are we going to say to her?” Henry asks, apprehensive.

“We’re appealing to her with political strategy, is what we’re doin’.”

“How so?” Henry asks.

“I came to fight, and I came to fuckin’ win.” She tells him, tying her hair back far too tight. “We’re tellin’ the truth, right?”

He looks to Alex, who nods in approval. “Right.”

“Thought so.”  
  


They sit down, awaiting Mary’s arrival in nervous silence. Philip is sitting as far from the rest of the family as possible, about to chew through his tongue. Henry hopes he fucking chokes on it. 

Mary sashays in, wearing a slate grey, knee-length dress, and four-and-a-half inch black heels. Her silver bob is arranged with razor precision, nails filed and painted a nude pink. She’s surprisingly tall, she's straight-backed and fine-jawed, even in her eighties. There’s a story in her sharp features and ice blue eyes, heavy frown creases around her mouth. 

She takes her seat at the table, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and takes a drag from the cancer stick between her lips. Alex lets out a wheezing cough. Henry immediately places a protective hand on the small of his back when Philip shoots him a look.

“I had a young man from China, someone working in the real estate department of the magazine,” She pauses, taking another drag. She always finds a way to bring Miami Chic into the conversation— her job is the only thing she has going for her. “Telling me about the wonderful art of photo editing. A couple of touch-ups, and you’ve got something completely different than what you’ve started with.” She muses, voice low and drawl heavy as she turns to Henry and Alex. “Perhaps such a thing happened with the two of you?”

“It’s real,” He gets out from between his teeth. Alex is rubbing his thigh. “Every bit of it.”

She looks at him as if she’s just dragged her heel through something unsightly. “Very well, in that case,” She turns to Alex, her smile reptilian. “Alexander, had I known you were involved with my grandson, I would have insisted upon a more formal first meeting.”

“Meemaw—“

“Henry darling, Meemaw is speaking, which means you are not.”

Catherine snaps to attention then. “Mother—“

Mary holds up a hand, silencing her as she turns to Henry. “Now, I expected this much from your sister,” she says, and, surprisingly, Philip’s mouth falls open. “But my disappointment when it comes to you on this subject is absolutely immeasurable. Why you’ve chosen to undermine the legacy I started— military men with strong, beautiful wives and angelic children— is _beyond_ me. Had I known of such _sinful_ thoughts and urges, I would have had them corrected ages ago.” She says plainly. Bea is red-faced, once again, surprisingly, Philip is shaking. “I’ve been reduced to meeting with _this_ —“ she says, gesturing to Alex, and Henry can hear nasty things about everything from his sexuality to his race bouncing about in her hideous, airy little head. “To try and save it all. _Clearly_ , you have lost your mind, and I’ll help you find it, since you _obviously_ need me to.”

“Mother,” Catherine starts again, not even trying to hide her anger. “That is _enough_. You’ve psychologically abused my children, and myself, for too damn long. Enough is enough.”

“Cate, I’m your mother. Without me, you would be _nothing_. You wouldn’t even be an abstract idea floating through the grand expanse of the cosmos.” She laughs, flicking the ash of her cigarette.

“Coming clean will paint us in a much better light then hiding it and sending a _grown man_ to conversion camp.” Catherine tells her, not backing down. “He is a young man, he is vulnerable, and he has been victimized because of who he loves.”

“We could integrate this into the campaign narrative.” Catherine says, choosing her words with extreme precision. “Reclaim the dignity in it. Make Henry an official suitor of the crown. Let him turn the other cheek to his outing with grace. Do what is _honorable_.”  
  


“I see, you're just going to let him throw caution to the wind, then?”

“You mean let him have free will?” Bea asks, scoffing when she's promptly ignored. 

Mary purses her lips. “Henry,” she tells him. “My dear. Wouldn’t everything be so much easier and painless without the unnecessary complications? We have the resources to get you a wife. We’ll compensate her handsomely; you understand, I’m only protecting you here. This might seem important now, but you have to think of the future. Surely, you can imagine the allegations? I can’t imagine people will be so eager to let you visit children’s hospitals—“

“ _For Christ’s sake, that is enough_!” Philip yells, slamming his hands down on the conference table and standing up. “I came to you when I was _weak_! After I was _hurt_ , and taken advantage of by someone I thought I could _trust_.” He continues, voice echoing through the room. “And I’ve stuck by everything you’ve said for _years_. I _can’t_ anymore. I _refuse_. Henry’s mental health didn’t just plummet when Dad died— it went up in fucking _flames_ when you inserted yourself in our lives!” He hisses.

Alex grabs Henry’s wrist, and Henry squeezes his hand, hard.

“ _Fuck yeah_ , you _tell_ ‘er, Skeeter!” Bea cheers, craving the chaos and complete anarchy that comes with turning against Mary.

“I’ll see you in Hell, you fuckin’ bitch.” He stands, turns to Catherine, and says, “I’ve got so much work to do. Until we meet again.”

Catherine nods, staring at him in bewilderment.  
  


Philip storms out, slamming the conference room door behind himself.

Henry turns to Mary, who looks embarrassed and enraged.

“I will not be intimidated by you any longer.” He tells her, plain and simple. She’s lost Philip; the only pawn she had left.   
  


She stiffens.“How do you plan on continuing the family line?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” Alex speaks up, voice oozing with sarcasm and bitterness. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to create _sufficient heirs.”_

“I didn’t give you permission to speak to me, _boy_ —“

“Call me ‘boy’ again,” Alex dares. “Fuck around and find out what will happen.” He continues, his smile downright terrifying. “Please, do it. Make my day. Make my _bloody_ day.”

Mary turns back to Henry. “The country will _never_ respect you.”  
  


“Correction: the yokels and Fox News will never respect him,” Catherine says. “Republicans have only won the popular vote once from JFK to now.”

“Look,” Bea says, brandishing Shaan’s tablet. A BBC article: _WORLDWIDE SUPPORT POURS IN FOR PRINCE ALEXANDER AND FIRST SON OF U.S._

Images of a rally outside the Beekman, decked out in rainbows, a sign that reads, _FIRST SON OF OUR HEARTS_. A banner on the side of a bridge in Paris that says: _HENRY + ALEX WERE HERE_. A hasty mural in Mexico City of Alex’s face in blue, purple and pink, a crown on his head. A heard of people marching through DC, Henry’s face ripped out of magazines and plastered onto poster boards reading: _FREE HENRY._ Homemade T-shirts that all say the same thing in crooked sharpie letters, a phrase from one of Alex’s emails: _HISTORY, HUH?_

Henry’s eyes are wet. He peers over to Alex, who looks paralyzed with happiness, like he’ll start bursting at the seams any second now.

Catherine turns and walks slowly to the window, yanking the drapes open, letting in a brilliant burst of sunlight.

Henry makes his way to the window, pulling Alex along with him to look. People are hanging off the fencing and standing in the streets with banners and signs, American flags and Union Jacks, pride pennants; it’s no inauguration, or royal wedding, but it’s still a massive sea of people.

Henry feels tears running down his face. He reaches out, and touches his fingers tentatively to the glass, as if it might break beneath the weight of them.   
  


“Oh, my sweet boy,” Catherine says, voice shaking. “They all love you.” She pulls him into his chest somehow, despite the fact that he’s nearly a foot taller.

Henry can hear Alex sniffing, and reaches for him. Alex threads their fingers together, and gives his hand a grounding squeeze.

Mary coughs.

Catherine turns to her, smirking triumphantly. “Should I get you a car back to your hotel?”

Mary glares at her. “No need. I’ll be headed to the airport.” She says, grabbing her things and exiting the conference room.

Alex posts a picture June sent him to his Twitter— a mural of himself and Henry, depicted as Han and Leia respectively. Henry’s in all white, with starlight in his hair. Alex is dressed as a scruffy smuggler, a blaster at his hip. A royal and a rebel, arms around each other, haloed by a bright yellow sun— and captions it with shaking fingers: _Never tell me the odds._

Henry calls June a few moments later.

“Can you help me out with something?”

He hears the click of her pen cocking on the other end of the line. “Watcha got?”


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: JEFFERY RICHARDS ⚠️

**Jezebel** ✔️@Jezebel  
  
WATCH: DC Dykes on Bikes chase   
protesters from Westboro Baptist Church  
down Pennsylvania Avenue, and yes, it’s as  
amazing as it sounds. _bit.ly/2ySPeRj_  
9:15 PM • 29 Sept 20

The very first time Henry pulled up to Pennsylvania Avenue as the First Son of the United States, he almost fell into a bush.

He can remember it vividly, even though the whole day felt like a lucid dream. He remembers the interior of the limo, how he was still unused to the way the leather felt under his clammy, trembling palms, still sick and jittery and pressed too close to the window to look at the crowds.

He remembers his mother, her long hair pulled back high and tight, wrapped around the elastic hair band, a braid fed in on both sides. She’d worn it down her first day as mayor, her first day in the house, her first day of speaker, but that day it was up. She said she didn’t want any distractions. He thought it made her look tough, like she would fight tooth and nail, if need be. He also thought she looked very beautiful and powerful, in her black two piece suit and white collared shirt, black sky-high heels, and blue tie in a stiff knot at her neck. She sat across from him, going over notes for her speech, a twenty-four karat gold American flag on her lapel, and Henry was so proud of her that he actually teared up.

There was a changeover at some point— Catherine escorted to the north entrance and Philip, Henry and Bea shuffled off in some other direction. He remembers a handful of things. His silver cuff links. A tiny scuff in the plaster on a western White House wall, which he was seeing in person for the first time. His own shoelace, untied. He remembers bending over to retie it, losing balance because of the anxiety of it all, Philip and Bea both having to pull him back up before he fell into a thorny rose bush in front of seventy-five cameras. He remembers turning to Philip, tears in his eyes as he shook uncontrollably.

“I know,” Philip had croaked, patting his face. “I know this is hard for you, but you’re gonna be okay.” He had taken a deep breath, and continued. “Bea and I— we’re always gonna be here for you.”

“Promise?” He’d asked, a frightened thing, only nineteen.

“Of course,” Bea has replied, sounding a bit choked up herself.

They’d both hugged him, and in that moment, he had decided that so long as he was able, he wasn’t going to let himself be anxious ever again. Not as Henry James Fox, First Son of the United States, and not as Henry James Fox, future bestselling author.

Now, he’s Henry James Fox, center of an international political sex scandal and boyfriend of a Prince of England, and he’s back in a limo on Pennsylvania Avenue, after seeing said prince off on his way back to London, and there’s another crowd, and he feels like he’s going to faint.

When the car door opens, it’s Bea, standing there in a bright yellow shirt that says: _HISTORY, HUH?_

“You like it?” She asks. “There’s a guy sellin’ ‘em down the block. I got his card. Sending it to a friend working for _Vogue_.”

Henry engulfs her in a hug that lifts her feet off the ground, and she yelps and pulls his hair, and they topple sideways into a shrub, as he was always destined to do.

Their mother is in a decathlon of meetings, so they sneak out onto the Truman Balcony and catch each other up over hot chocolates and a box of doughnuts. Pez has been trying to play messenger for both respective camps, but it’s only so effective. June cries first when she hears about the phone call on the airplane, then cries again at Henry standing up to Philip, then a third time at Philip revolting against Mary and seemingly vanishing from this existential plane. She texts Henry about a hundred heart emojis, then sends a video of Alex and Ellen drinking while Nora plays “God Save the Queen” on her iPhone. He falls the fuck out laughing.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Bea says, recovering from her giggling. “Nobody has seen Martha in two days.”

Henry’s heart leaps into his throat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve called her, Shaan’s called her, The Veep’s called her, she’s not answering anyone. Went to her house— guards said she was ‘fine, but busy’. She’d told them to not let anyone in.”  
  


“That’s awfully concerning.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Henry turns away, pacing over to the railing. He really could have used Martha’s nonplussed approach in this situation, or, really, just his good friend’s company. He feels a bit betrayed that she’s abandoned them when they need her most. He takes her and Philip’s separation into account— she has a knack for throwing herself into complex problems so that her own don’t look so difficult.

“Oh, hey,” Bea says. “June asked me to write this out and give it to you.” She reaches into her jacket pocket, and hands him a folded-up piece of paper.

He skims the first few lines.

“I—“ He stumbles over his words, choking on his breath. “Oh, my _God_.”

“Do you like it?” June asks, suddenly on speakerphone. She sounds nervous. “I was trying to capture, like, who you are, and your place in history, and what your role means to you, and—“

“June, honey, it’s perfect.” Henry interrupts, teary-eyed and speechless.

He swears he can hear June sniffling when Cash steps into the doorway.

“First Spawn,” He greets. “Madam President wants you guys in her office,” He tells them, and his attention shifts as he listens to his earpiece. “I’ve been told to bring the doughnuts.” He announces, grabbing the box with one hand.

They hang up with June, and Bea turns to him. “How does she always _know?_ ” She stage-whispers. 

“Longhorn and Lone Star are on the move,” Cash says, touching his earpiece.

“I still can’t believe you picked that for your stupid code name,” Bea says to him.

“Better than namin’ myself after a cow, heifer.” He snarks, tripping her on the way through the door.

The doughnuts have been gone for two hours.

One, on the couch: Bea, tying and untying and retying the purple ladder laces on her Doc Martens, for lack of anything better to do with her hands. Two, against a far wall: Shaan typing out emails at record speed, looking like he hasn’t shaved in a week. Three, at the Resolute Desk: Catherine, lost in probability projections. Four, on the other couch: Henry, watching everyone else so he doesn’t have to waste energy thinking. 

The Oval Office doors slam open and Martha comes bursting in. 

She’s wearing a bleach-stained _Lovett for Congress ‘72_ sweatshirt and a look that reminds Henry of people walking out of a cinema after watching an especially scary horror film. She nearly crashed into the bust of Abraham Lincoln in a rush to get to Catherine’s desk.

Henry’s already on his feet. “Where have you _been?_ ”

She throws a thick folder down on the desk and turns halfway to face Bea and Henry, out of breath. “Alright kiddies, I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be, but—“ Her perfectly manicured nails dig into the wood of the desk, and she gestures towards the folder with her chin. “I haven’t left my house for two days because of this, and you’re not gonna be mad anymore when you see it.”  
  


Catherine blinks at her, perturbed. “Martha, sweetie, we’re trying to figure out—“

“ _Cathy_ ,” Martha says, stern, grabbing her attention. “You’ve been my mother since before I was even dating Philip, and I love you, so pardon my French, but shut the _fuck_ up and just read the damn files.”

Henry watches her eyes widen as she slowly sets her pen down, pulling the folder toward her. Martha looks like she’s about to pass out on top of the desk. He looks to Bea on the couch, who appears as clueless as he feels, and—

“Holy fuckin’ _shit_ ,” Catherine gasps, dawning a mix of fury and shock. “Is this—?”

“Yeah,” Martha says.

“And the—?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Catherine takes off her glasses, mouth hanging open as she turns toward Martha. “How the hell did _you get_ this?”

“Alrighty, so,” Martha starts, stepping backwards. Henry doesn’t know what’s happening, but it has to be fucking huge. “The day of the leaks, I got an anonymous email. Sock puppet account, clear as day. Untraceable— I tried. Got sent a link to a massive file dump, and they told me they were a hacker and had obtained the entire contents of the Richards campaign’s email server.”

Henry gapes at her. “What?”

Shaan steps closer. “Why didn’t you report this to the proper channels?”

“Because I thought it was a joke at first, and when it wasn’t, I didn’t trust anyone but myself to handle it. They sent it to me because they said they knew I was invested personally in Henry’s situation and would work as fast as possible to find what they didn’t have time to.”

“Which is?” Henry asks, still in shock.

“Proof,” She says, voice wobbling. “That Richards fucking set you up. And that he has ties to white supremacy groups.”

Henry’s ears are ringing, but he can distinctly hear the sound of swearing beneath Bea’s breath as she gets up from the couch, walking off to a far corner of the room. His knees give out, and he sits down again.

“We’d suspected that the RNC had somehow been involved with some of what happened,” his mother says. She’s kneeling on the floor in front of him in her navy tweed sheath dress and suit jacket, folder held against her chest. “I had people looking into it. I never imagined... anything like this. Especially not straight from Richards’ campaign.”

She takes the folder, and spreads it out on the coffee table. 

“There were just— I don’t even _know_ — hundreds of thousands of emails.” Martha says as Henry eases himself down onto the rug and starts staring at the pages. “And I swear a third of them were from dummy accounts, but I wrote a code out that narrowed it down to about three thousand. I manually sorted through the rest. This is everything about Henry and Alex.” She says, looking gravely pale.

Henry notices his own face first. It’s a photo: blurry, out of focus, caught on a long-range lens, only barely recognizable. It’s hard to place where he is, until he sees the elegant ivory curtains at the edge of the frame. His bedroom. 

He looks above the photo and sees it’s attached to an email between two people. _Negative. Nilsen says that’s not nearly clear enough. You need to tell the P we’re not paying for Bigfoot sightings._

Nilsen. Nilsen, as in Richards’ campaign manager.

“Richards outed you, Henry.” Martha says. “As soon as you left the campaign, it started. He hired a firm that hired the hackers who got the surveillance tapes from the Beekman.”

His mother is next to him with a highlighter cap already between her teeth, slashing electric blue lines across pages. There’s movement to his right: Shaan is there, too, pulling a stack of papers toward him and starting in with a red pen.

“I— I don’t have bank account numbers or anything, but these are emails from finance and bookkeeping. There are paystubs and and invoices and everything, if you look,” She says, pointing at a few names. “American Identity Movement: prominent white supremacy group in Salt Lake City. Patriot Front: white supremacy group that’s statewide in Utah. Proud Boys— guys, he’s being funded by all of them. Look,” She instructs, pointing at each transaction. It makes Henry sick to his stomach. “It’s all through back channels and go-between firms and fake names, but it’s— there’s a digital paper trail for literally _everything_. Enough for a federal investigation, which could subpoena the financial stuff, I think. Richards hired a firm that hired the photographers who followed Henry and the hackers who breached your server, and then he hired another third party to buy everything and resell it to the Daily Mail. I mean, we’re talkin’ about having private contractors surveil a member of the First Family and infiltrate White House security to induce a sex scandal to win a presidential race, that’s so just—“

“Martha, hon,” Bea says. “Take a breath, please.”

“Sorry,” Martha apologizes, sitting down. “I’ve been mixing coffee and Red Bull to get through all of those, and ate a quarter of a pot brownie to level back out. I’m currently in the process of coming back from the next dimension over.”

Henry closes his eyes. 

There’s so much in front of him, and it feels impossible to process, and he’s furious, but he can do something about it. He can walk out of here, call Alex, and tell him that they’re going to be okay.

He opens his eyes again, looks down at the pages on the table.

“What the hell are we gonna do with this?” Bea asks, stunned.

“We gotta leak it,” Henry starts. “WikiLeaks—“

“Not givin’ ‘em jack fuckin’ shit.” Catherine cuts him off immediately, not even looking up. “Not after what they did to you. This is real shit, and this motherfucker’s goin’ _down_. It’s gotta stick.” She slams her highlighter down. “We’re leaking it to the press.”

“No major publication will run it without verification from someone on Richards’ campaign that they’re real.” Bea points out. “And that shit takes _months_.”  
  


“Mazzy,” Catherine says, fixing her with a sober, serious gaze. “Is there any way you can trace the person who sent this to you?”

“I’ve tried, I really have.” Martha says, sounding apologetic. “They did everything to obscure their identity. I can show you the email they sent.” She offers, producing her phone. 

She swipes through a few screens and places her phone face up on the table. The email is exactly as she described, with a signature at the bottom that’s apparently a random combination of numbers and letters, two rows:

2021 SCB. BAC CHZ GR ON A1.

MD NGHT MSS XMS 2014. GT DRNK BFRE SRVC. 

He able to pick apart the first string of code before looking it up on his phone: _2021 South Colorado Boulevard._ A Five Guys in Denver, Colorado. Alex at one point had told him that he’d had Rafael Luna’s Five Guys order memorized; bacon cheeseburger, grilled onions, and A1 sauce.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” He breathes, reading the second line.

_Midnight mass, Christmas of 2014. Got drunk before service._

These are codes for Henry, and Henry only.

He feels like he can’t breathe as he turns to his mother. “This isn’t a hacker,” He says. “Raf Luna and Philip teamed up to send these to you. If y’all can protect them, they’ll confirm it.”

_[MUSICAL INTRODUCTION: 15 SECOND INSTRUMENTAL FROM DESTINY’S CHILD’S 1999 SINGLE, “BILLS, BILLS, BILLS”]_

  
**VOICEOVER:** This is a Range Audio podcast. You’re listening to “Bills, Bills, Bills”, hosted by Oliver Westbrook, Professor of Constitutional Law at NYU.

_[END MUSICAL INTRODUCTION]_

**WESTBROOK:** Hi. I’m Oliver Westbrook, and with me today, as always, is my exceedingly patient, talented, merciful, and lovely producer, Sufia, without whom I’d be lost, bereft, floating on a sea of bad thoughts and drinking my own piss. We love her. Say hi, Sufia.

**SUFIA JARWAR, PRODUCER, RANGE AUDIO:** Hello, please send help.

**WESTBROOK:** And this is _Bills, Bills, Bills_ , the podcast where I attempt every week to break down for you, in layman’s terms, what’s happening in Congress, why you should care, and what you can do about it.

Well. I gotta tell you, guys. I had a very different show planned out a few days ago, but I don’t really see the point of getting into any of it.

Let’s just, ah. Take a minute to review the story the _Washington Post_ broke this morning. We’ve got emails, anonymously leaked, confirmed by anonymous sources on Richards’ campaign, that not only clearly show the campaign accepting generous donations from white power groups, but also show that Jeffery Richards— or at least high-ranking staffers at his campaign— orchestrated this fucking diabolical campaign to have Henry Fox stalked, surveilled, hacked, and outed by the _Daily Mail_ as part of an effort to take down Catherine Fox in the general. And then, about— uh, what is it, Suf? Forty minutes ago, Rafael Luna announced through a press statement that he was joining the Fox campaign, and thirty five minutes ago Philip Fox tweeted he was parting ways with the Richards campaign.

So. Wow.

I don’t think there’s any need to discuss possible leaks from that campaign other than Fox and Luna. It’s obviously them. From where I sit, this looks like the case of two men who— maybe they didn’t want to be there in the first place, maybe they were both already having second thoughts. Maybe they even infiltrated the campaign together to do something like this— Sufia, am I allowed to say that?

**JARWAR:** Literally, when has that ever stopped you?

**WESTBROOK:** Point. Anyway, _Casper Mattresses_ is paying me the big sponsorship bucks to give you a Washington analysis podcast, so I’m gonna attempt to do that here, even though what happened to Henry Fox— and Prince Alexander too— over the past few days has been obscene, and it feels cheap and gross to even talk about it like this. But on my opinion, here are the three big things to take away from the news we’ve gotten today.

First, the First Son of the United States didn’t actually do anything wrong.

Second, Jeffrey Richards is a white supremacist who committed a hostile act against a sitting president, and I am eagerly awaiting the federal investigation that is coming to him once he loses this election.

Third, Rafael Luna and Philip Fox are perhaps the unlikeliest heroes of the 2020 presidential race.

A speech has to be made.

Not just a statement. A speech.

“You wrote this?” Their mother asks June, holding the folded-up page Bea gave Henry on the balcony. “Henry told you to scrap the statement our press secretary drafted and write this whole thing?” June bites her lip and nods. “This— this is good, Your Highness. Why the hell aren't you writing _all_ our speeches?”

“Something about foreign interference,” June replies, smiling wide as she waves her hand vaguely. “And please, Madam President, June works just fine.”  
  


Catherine smiles. “So long as we’re being all buddy-buddy about it, you can call me Catherine.”

The press briefing room in the West Wing is ruled too impersonal, so they’ve called the press pool to the Diplomatic Reception Room on the ground floor. It’s the room where FDR once recorded his fireside chats, and Henry is going to walk in there and make a speech and hope the country doesn’t hate him for speaking his truth.

They’ve flown June and Alex from London for the telecast. Alex will be positioned right at Henry’s shoulder, steady and sure, the emblematic politician’s spouse. June is there to make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible for both of them, keeping Alex together and mouthing Henry’s lines as he speaks them aloud. Henry’s brain is buzzing just thinking about it. He keeps picturing it: an hour from now, millions and millions of TVs across America simulcasting his face, his voice, June’s words, Alex at his side. Everyone will know. Everyone already knows, but they don’t know the right way.

In an hour, every person in America will be able to look at a screen and see their First Son and his boyfriend.

And, across the Atlantic, almost as many people will look up over a beer at a pub or dinner with their family or a quiet night in and see their young prince, their beautiful heir, Prince Charming.

This is it. October 2, 2020, and the whole world watched, and history remembered. 

Henry waits on the South Lawn, within view of the linden trees of the Kennedy Garden, where they first kissed. Marine One touches down in a cacophony of noise and wind and rotors, and Alex emerges in head-to-toe Burberry looking dramatic and windswept, like a dashing hero here to rip bodices and mend war-torn countries, and Henry has to laugh.

“What?” Alex shouts over the noise when he sees the look on Henry’s face. 

“My life is a cosmic joke, and you’re not a real person.” Henry says, wheezing.

“ _Huh?_ ” Alex shouts, louder.

“I _said_ , you look great, and I can’t wait to get this over with and be alone with you!”

They sneak off to make out in a stairwell until Shaan finds them and drags Alex off to get camera-ready, and soon, they’re being shuffled to the Diplomatic Reception Room, and it’s time.

It’s time.

It’s been one long, long year of learning Alex inside and out, learning himself, learning how much he still had to learn about just about everything. Just like that, it’s time to walk out there and stand at a podium and confidently declare it as fact.

For once, he isn’t afraid of anything he feels. He’s not afraid of saying it. He’s intimidated by the sheer number of people watching, sure, but he’s only truly afraid of what will happen when he does finally say it. 

Alex touches his hand gently, two fingers against his palm, before he lifts the back of it to his mouth, kissing it. 

“Five minutes for the rest of our lives,” He says, and his laugh is nervous, yet unguarded.

Henry reaches for him in return, presses one thumb to the hollow of his collarbone, slipping right under the knot of his tie. Lavender silk. Henry’s breathing is labored. 

“You are,” He tells him, “The absolute _worst_ idea I have ever had.”

Alex smirks, and Henry pecks the corner of his mouth.

_FIRST SON HENRY FOX’S ADDRESS FROM THE WHITE HOUSE, OCTOBER 2, 2020._

_Good morning._

_I am, and always have been— first, last, and always— a child of America._

_This great nation raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I had gotten my driver’s license. When I caught the flu in fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir— we were in a rush, and it was the only paper on hand._

_I spoke to you for the first time when I was nineteen years old, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when my siblings and I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. As some of you may recall, I had been crying, in disbelief that my mother, a widow and single-mother, was able to come so far. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy from humble beginnings with irrational fears and a quiet mind from a beautiful, grieving family, could make a home for himself in the White House._

_You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down._

_Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too._

_The truth is, Alexander and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we both struggled everyday with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time in order to afford to share our relationship with the world on our own terms._

_We were not afforded that liberty._

_But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books._

_America: he is my choice._

_Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I am gay. History will remember us._

_If I may ask only one thing of the American people it is this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity._

_Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Alexander, but in the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election._

_And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. Born in Atlanta Georgia, raised in both Waco, Texas and Los Osos, California. I still remember the sound of your voices in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now— the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes once again in January, I will continue to be._

_Have a good day, my fellow Americans, and God bless y’all._

A picture: the morning after, a new crowd gathered on the Mall, the biggest yet. Henry stays in the Residence for safety, but he and Alex and June and Bea and Catherine all sit in the living room on the second floor and watch the live stream on CNN. In the middle of the broadcast: Amy at the front of a cheering crowd wearing Bea’s yellow _HISTORY, HUH?_ T-shirt and a trans flag pin. Next to her: Cash, with Amy’s wife on his shoulders in what Henry can see is a jean jacket, the plane embroidered in the colors of the pansexual flag. Alex whoops so hard he spills his coffee on George Bush’s favorite rug.  
  


A picture: Jeffery Richards’ stupid Sam the Eagle face on CNN, talking about his grave concern for President Fox’s ability to remain impartial on matters of traditional family values due to the acts her son engages in on the sacred grounds of the house our forefathers built. Followed by: Vice President Leland Lovett, responding via satellite, that President Fox’s primary value is upholding the Constitution, and that the White House was built by slaves, not our forefathers. 

A picture: the expression on Philip and Martha’s faces when they see Henry standing in the doorway of a West Wing conference room.

Philip looks reserved and pale. Martha is crying.

“Henry,” Philip greets, but Henry says nothing in response, shutting the door behind himself and taking a seat at the head of the table; he has the high ground.

He looks at his brother, then Martha, then back to his brother.

“I believe you owe me an explanation for everything you’ve put this family through.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’m entitled to that much, Philip.”

Philip sighs, and Martha puts a hand on his shoulder. Henry can’t help but feel confused and a bit betrayed by the action.

“Did you know he was going to do that before he did?” He asks, and he can see Philip’s face turning red. “Answer me!”

“No,” Philip murmurs, not meeting his gaze. “I had no idea,” He looks up, and sighs. “I know I’ve hurt you, and that you have no reason to believe me, but I need you to know that I would never, ever do that to you.”

“You disowned me for being gay, so sorry for not exactly having the _most faith_ in you—“

“Henry,” Martha says, and he immediately quiets. “I know you’re confused, and hurting, but please, let him speak.”

Henry pinches his lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs soundlessly. “Thank you.”

Henry turns his attention back to Philip. “What happened?”

Philip sighs. “From the time you were seventeen, to the time you were eighteen, I interned with Jeffery Richards.”

Henry blinks. “ _Excuse me?”_

“You probably don’t remember, between Dad and your own mental health struggle,” Philip says gently. “But I was showing interest in politics, and I was a young, shiny kid with a fresh perspective, and Mom thought it would be good for me to challenge my beliefs and work with someone on the opposite end of the political spectrum.” He clears his throat, but falls silent. Martha rubs his neck, whispers something to him that Henry doesn’t hear.   
  


There were rumors, Philip explains, among low and mid-level staffers. Usually female interns, but occasionally a pretty boy— like what Philip had been at the time, with his blond hair and blue eyes and softer masculine features. Promises, from Richards: mentorships, connections, if “you’d just get a drink from me after work”. A strong implication that the offer was not one that could be refused.

“I was younger, then.” He says. “About your age. Now, I know that you’re far smarter now than I was then, but I didn’t see anything to be afraid of.”

Philip takes a breath, and Martha kisses his temple. Henry can feel everything inside him vibrating and twisting in horror. 

“He sent a car for me, made me meet him at a hotel, got me drunk, and then he— then he—“

“You don’t have to say it, Philip.” Henry croaks, eyes watering. “I can make a pretty good inference as to what happened.”

“I went home, back to my shitty little apartment— you remember it. And I took a shower, had a drink, and went to bed.” Philip says, voice strained and wobbling. “I went into work the next day; I made small talk with him in the break room. I acted like nothing happened.”

“Oh _God, Philip._ ” Henry breathes. “Did you tell anyone?”

Philip coughs, pulls a tissue from the box on the conference room table and wipes at his eyes. “Dad,” He murmurs. “And he _begged_ me to pursue legal action, but I just— I couldn’t, Henry. I _couldn’t.”_

Henry’s crying too, and plucks a tissue of his own from the box.

“I saw the Richards Youth shit, and I didn’t even want to imagine how many kids were gonna get hurt.” His brother rasps. “Apparently, Senator Luna had been through something similar, but less severe. I agreed to help him expose Richards for what he is— a sexually abusive, evil, vindictive monster. Rafael, he knew where to look. I knew how to weed out the things we didn’t need.”

“Did Mama know about y’all’s plan?” Henry asks, dumbfounded.

Philip smiles, and it’s heartbreaking. “Not a clue. She thought I turned against her completely. Called me crying, asking what she did to upset me and how she just wanted her ‘baby boy’ back; I almost killed her, Hen.” He whispers, sighing.

Henry stares blankly at him. He feels like a fool for threatening him with violence in the hotel room.

Philip speaks up again. “I still have my clothes from that night,” He explains. “They have his DNA all over them.”

Henry thinks that they’ll have to take him to Walter Reed if his heart beats any faster.

“Are you gonna—“

“Yes, after the general is over and done with, I will be pressing charges.”  
  


The room falls silent again. Henry doesn’t know whether to rejoice at the fact that his brother could get the justice he deserves, or to cry because he never stopped to consider that Philip— the older brother that gave and gave and gave— could have secrets. That he could be hurting just as much as himself and Bea.

“I’m going to therapy,” Philip announces. “The way that I treated you was completely out of line. It was disgraceful, Henry.” He leans over the table, looking Henry in the eyes with utmost sincerity. “I’d like to fix our relationship, to get things back to the way they used to be, if that’s alright with you. It will be hard, and I know I’ve hurt you, but all I’m asking for is your understanding. Please be patient with me, and I’ll make it all okay again.” He swears. “I promise.”

Martha is sobbing silently. Henry can’t bring himself to look at her.   
  


Instead, he locks eyes with his brother, and nods.

“Alright, Pip.” He decides, letting go of his anger and pain. He’s making a conscientious effort, and that’s all that matters right now. “I can do that. I believe in you.”

Philip smiles, and fresh tears roll down his face.

“That’s all I could ever ask of you.”

Alex gets his own room in the White House while he’s in. The crown spared him two nights before he does his own damage control tour. Henry is eternally grateful for Ellen’s generosity. 

This particularly is what makes it a little funny that Alex’s room— the customary quarters for royal guests— is called the Queen’s Bedroom.

“It’s quite... aggressively pink, innit?” Alex mumbles exhaustedly.

The room is, really, aggressively pink, done up in the Federal style with pink walls and rose-covered rugs and bedding, everything upholstered in pale pink; definitely more along the lines of the Queen Mother’s tastes than anyone currently in the royal family. 

Alex agreed to sleep in the room rather than Henry’s “because I respect your mother” as if every person who had a hand in raising Henry has not read in graphic detail the things the two of them get up to when they share a bed. Henry has no hang ups and enjoys Alex’s half-hearted grumblings when he sneaks in from the East Bedroom right down the hall.

They’ve woken up half-naked and warm, tucked in tight while the first autumn chill creeps in under the lacy curtains. Alex hums low in his chest, and presses the length of his body against Henry’s under the blankets, his back to Henry’s chest, the swell of his ass against—

“ _Argh_ , hello,” Henry finds himself mumbling, hips hitching at the contact. 

“Morning,” Alex greets. He gives his ass a little wiggle; Henry holds his hips still with one hand, and presses the other against his stomach— now is not the time for knowing one another in the biblical sense. “Time’s it?”

“Seven thirty-two.”

“Plane in two hours.”

Henry makes a noise of disappointment in the back of his throat. Alex turns over, smiling sympathetically at Henry, apologetic.

“You don’t need me to come with you?” He asks, perhaps feeling a bit clingy after everything they’ve been through within the past forty-eight hours.

Alex shakes his head without picking his head up from the pillow, so his cheek squishes against it. It’s adorable. “I’ve got to do some damage control for all the Tory cunts before you can come back over, baby.”

“That’s fair.” Henry says. “Soon?”

Alex grins. “Absolutely. You’ve got the royal suitor photos to take, the Christmas cards to sign... Oh, I wonder if they’ll have you do a line of skincare products—“

“ _Stop_ ,” Henry whines pitifully, and Alex pokes him gently in the ribs. “You’re enjoying this _far_ too much.”

“I’m enjoying it a completely reasonable amount,” Alex retorts. “But, in all seriousness, it’s both frightening and liberating, to do this on my own. I don’t get to do things my way very often.”

Henry smiles, kissing his dry, cracked, red lips. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Ew,” Alex says, in a flat, surprisingly good American accent, Henry laughs, and he throws an elbow.

Henry pulls him in and kisses him, Alex’s dark skin looking rather beautiful against the soft pink bedspread, curled lashes and shorter, strong legs and dark brown eyes, breath hitching as Henry’s calloused hands pin him by his wrists to the mattress. It’s like everything he’s ever loved about Alex in a moment; his shy smile, the way he bites his lip and furrows his brows when Henry does something he really likes, the way his thighs fit perfectly around Henry’s waist in happy, unfettered sex in the well-furnished eye of the storm.

Today, Alex goes back to London, and Henry is finally, officially allowed back on the campaign trail. They have to figure out how to do this for real now, how to love each other in plain sight.

Henry thinks they’re up for the challenge.


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parting is such sweet sorrow; what a journey this has been. 
> 
> Much love to all my readers: here’s your happy ending fellas.

**nearly four weeks later  
  
**

“Let me get this hair, love.”

“ _Mum_.”

“Sorry, am I _embarrassing_ you?” Ellen says, tongue farting out as she rearranges Alex’s thick curls. “You’ll thank me when you’ve not got hair sticking out erratically in your official portrait.” She looks wonderful— strawberry blonde hair shining like spun gold in the sunlight, wearing a casual blouse with a knee-length pleated skirt. She’s got on a pair of Keds, and Henry’s glad that there isn’t any paparazzi around; wouldn’t want to _scandalize_ anyone by showing the queen owns shoes that are actually _comfortable_.

Henry has to admit, the royal photographer is being exceedingly patient about the whole thing, especially considering they waffled through three different locations— Kensington Gardens, a suffocating Buckingham Palace library, the courtyard of Hampton Court Palace— before they decided to screw it all for a bench in a locked down Hyde Park.

There’s a certain need for formal portraits now that Henry is officially in “courtship” with Alex. He tries not to think about his face on a plethora of ungodly objects. At least it’ll be next to Alex’s.

Some psychological math always goes into styling photos like these. The White House stylists have Henry in something he’d wear any day— a nice button-down tucked into dark jeans and a navy cardigan. Alex is dressed quite casually; a chambray shirt, slim-fit chinos, and brown leather loafers. It is, apparently, one of ten possible outfits they had selected for him; he looks perfect.

They want a picture of a charming, charismatic prince, and a loved-up boyfriend with a bright future in academia and the creative arts. They even staged a little pile of books on the bench next to him.

Henry looks over at Alex, who’s groaning and rolling his eyes at his mother’s preening, and smiles at how much closer this packaging is to is chaotic, wonderful, beautiful boyfriend. As close as any PR campaign is ever going to get.

They take about a hundred portraits just sitting on the bench next to each other and smiling, and Henry still can’t quite believe he’s actually here, in the middle of Hyde Park, in front of God and everybody, holding Alex’s hand atop his knee for the camera.

“If Alex from this time last year could see this,” Alex murmurs, leaning into Henry’s ear.

“He’d say ‘Oh, I’m in love with Henry? That must be why I’m such a _dick_ to him all the time,’” Henry suggests playfully.

“Hey!” Alex squawks, and Henry chuckles at his own joke and Alex’s indignation, one arm coming up and wrapping around Alex’s shoulders. Alex gives into it and laughs too, full and deep, making Henry weak. The photographer finally calls it, and they’re set loose for the day.

Ellen’s busy— three meetings before afternoon tea to discuss relocating to a royal residence more centrally in London; she plans on becoming more involved than ever in local communities. Henry can see the glint in her eye— she’s going to do amazing things. She kisses them both and leaves them with Alex’s PPOs.

It’s a short walk over the Long Water back to Kensington, and they meet Bea and June at the Orangery, where a dozen members of June’s event-planning team are scurrying around, setting up a stage. Bea’s tromping around in a ponytail and rain boots, speaking very firmly and insistently about something called “cullen skink” and why on earth would June ever request cullen skink and even if she _had_ requested cullen skink in _what universe_ would she ever need twenty fucking _liters_ of cullen skink, ever. June is floating behind her as she paces angrily, shoulders shaking with silent giggles.

“What the hell is a ‘cullen skink’?” Henry asks once she’s hung up.  
  


“Smoked haddock chowder,” June intercepts, taking her phone back from Bea. “Your sister makes a good yeller,” She says, laughing when Bea musses her hair. “Enjoy your first royal dog show, Henry?”

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Henry replies, smiling.

“Mum is _beyond_ ,” Alex says. “She’s been babying me all bloody _day_ — you need to help me do something about her.”

June tuts. “She’s just glad to see you happy. _Enjoy it_ , Alex.”

Henry changes the subject before they start squabbling. “What’re you two ladies up to?”

“Oh, y’know,” Bea says, making a vague hand gesture. “Just gettin’ the stuff for my concert ready.”

In collaboration with Pez, June, and Nora, Bea has decided to start up a charity fund supporting addiction recovery programs in the U.K. and the U.S. Her first concert will be £8,000 a ticket, featuring herself and a live band, as well as celebrity guests— her first solo fund-raiser. Alex’s October has been quite busy as well; his own being an LGBT rights organization.

“Wish I could stay to see your show,” Henry tells her, earnest. Bea’s got a gift, and she never puts on a bad performance.

  
  
June beams. “If you weren’t insistent on following Alex around like a lost pup while he’s going to New York to sign papers with Pezza, we could fire our pianist.”  
  


“Papers?” Henry asks, raising a brow.

Alex shoots June a silencing glare. “ _Catalina_ —“

“For the youth shelters,” Bea intercepts.

“ _Beatrice_ ,” Alex whines. “It was going to be a _surprise_.”

Henry looks to Alex. “What’s goin’ on?”

Alex sighs. “Had a sit down with Mum. Agreed that the foundation should go international, because there’s work to be done all over the world. I wanted to specifically focus on homeless queer youth. I got Pez to sign over all our Okonjo Foundation youth shelters.” He explains. “Wanted to wait until _after_ the election to say anything,” He glares playfully at the girls; June sticks her tongue out, Bea flips him off. He smiles widely at Henry. “You’re looking at the proud father of four worldwide soon-to-be-shelters for disenfranchised queer teens.”

Henry smiles at him, throwing his arms around him and squeezing tight. “God, I love you,” He sighs, smiling. “Like, _stupid_ love you.” He continues, and Alex hums, kissing his temple. He yanks back suddenly, stricken. “Oh my God, _wait_ , this means the Brooklyn shelter too, right?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You said you wanted to be more hands-on,” Henry reminds him, pulse jumping. “Perhaps some _direct supervision_ would be helpful when it comes to getting everything off the ground?”

“Henry, babes,” Alex says, chuckling and cupping his face. “I can’t just— up and move to New York.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Bea asks, throwing her hands up at him.

“Because I’m the prince of—“ Alex gestures to everything around him. “All _this_.”

June shrugs. “And? You’ve been hiding out in the Greek countryside every summer since you graduated high school, it’s hardly unprecedented.”

“Oh, hush,” Alex scolds. He tugs at the fabric of Henry’s cardigan, and he puts it on as soon as Henry removes it. “I will come visit you as frequently as possible.” He swears, pecking Henry’s lips. “I promise.”

“I’ll still miss you,” Henry says, laughing when June makes a soft ‘ _aww_ ’ sound.

Alex rolls his eyes at her, thumbs stroking over Henry’s cheekbones. “We’ll make it work.” He whispers. “We always do.”

Blue or gray? Gray or blue?

Two equally tame blazers have never caused Henry so much stress in his life. 

“This is pointless,” Pez says. “They’ll both make you fade into the background.”

“Please, Percy. Just help me pick a damn blazer.” Henry tells him, holding up a hanger in each hand, ignoring his judgmental look from where he’s perched atop his dresser. The pictures for tomorrow night, win or lose, will follow him for the rest of his life.

“Henry, really, I don’t like either of them. You need something sickening. This could be your fucking _swan song_.”

“Let’s not—“

“Yeah, you’re right, if projections hold, we’re fine,” he says, hopping down. “Tell me why you’re choosing to punt so hard on this particular moment in your career as a risk-taking fashion plate?”

“No,” Henry says. He waves the hangers at him. “Blue or gray?”

“You’re nervous,” Pez says, ignoring him.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course I am, Pez. It’s a presidential election, and I came out of the president.”

“Try again.”

He’s giving him that look. The “you're full of fucking shit” look. He groans loudly.

“ _Fine_ ,” he relents. “I’m nervous about going back to Texas.”

He tosses both blazers on the bed.

“I always felt like being Texas’ golden boy was conditional.” He paces. “The whole southern Democrat thing was already pushin’ it,” He explains. “I just got into a gay international sex scandal with a half-Mexican, European prince. I don’t know how I’ll be perceived.”

He loves Texas— _believes_ in Texas. But he doesn’t know if Texas still loves him.

“So... you’re playing it straight?” Pez asks. “You’re stifling yourself for the approval of others.”  
  


“Yes,” Henry says without missing a beat. “Yes I am.”

“Your numbers in Texas aren’t bad, you know.”

Henry bites his lip. He gave up on checking in September— he’d just freeze up when he’d go to check. “They aren’t?”

“Henry, the base in Texas hasn’t shifted on you since September, like, at all. If anything, they like you more. Undecideds are pissed that Richards came after a Texas baby. You’re fine.”  
  


_Oh_.

Henry’s hands are shaking, and his chest is fluttering. He starts pacing, his fight-or-flight reflexes nearly triggered by these facts. “Okay.”

He sits down heavily on the bed. Pez sits beside him, pushing brightly-painted nails through his thick, blond hair. 

“This isn’t just Texas,” Pez tells him. “You were just traumatized on a national scale, and now you’re scared to express yourself and exist how you were made to, because you don’t want any more attention on you.”

Henry nearly laughs; finally, someone _understands_.

Henry leans on him. “I was gonna change the world with my writing— do big things and leave my mark, as trivial and childish as it sounds.” He says fondly. “I am not the same person I was before September.”

Pez kisses his hair, platonic and affectionate. “Do you like who you are now?”

Henry’s different now. Darker, more neurotic. Stronger heart. More willing to fight to be who he is now than ever. More scared than he ever has been in his life.

“Yeah,” He decides, firm. “I do,”

“Good boy,” Pez praises, squeezing him. “In that case,”

Pez ducks into his closet, and Henry can hear hangers sliding around on the metal rod. 

“You have become a national gay icon, Hen,” Pez announces. “And that, my star child, is a _massive_ deal.”

He emerges with a jacket Henry has never worn before, one he had been convinced to buy after getting drunk and eating gelato one night after too many episodes of West Wing. It’s fucking Gucci, a midnight blue bomber jacket with red, white, and blue stripes at the waistband and cuffs.

“That’s a lot,” Henry comments, hesitant.

Pez smirks. “Gotta give ‘em something to talk about,” He says. “You'd look hot as fuck, too. Just sayin’.” 

Henry snorts, examining it closer.

“You really think I’ll be able to pull it off?”

Pez smiles. “Only one way to know for sure.”

Henry sets down a copy of _HELLO! US_ — the issue with his and Alex’s portrait on the front page— and makes his way over to the mirror.

Pez helps him into the arguably gaudy thing, pulling it right around him, smoothing down the shoulders.

Henry doesn’t hate it.

He vocalizes his thought.

“This is—“ He examines himself, turning to see the jacket from all angles. “Are you sure it looks good?” He asks, uncertain.

“Henry James Fox,” Pez declares. “Texas is going to love you.” He continues, hugging Henry from behind.

His hands find Pez’s arms, holding him in place.

“God, I hope you’re right.”

Henry gnaws on his bottom lip until he tastes copper. Cracks his knuckles. Peers down at his ballot.

_PRESIDENT and VICE PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES_

**Vote for One**

He picks up the stylus chained to the machine, heart resting on his tongue, and selects: _FOX, CATHERINE_ and _LOVETT, LELAND._

The machine chirps its approval, and to its gently humming mechanisms, he could be anybody. One of millions, a single tally mark, worth no more or less than any of the others. Just pressing a button.  
  


It’s a definite risk, doing election night in Waco. There’s no rule, technically, saying the sitting president can’t hold their rally in DC, but it is customary to do it at home. 

2016 was bittersweet. Austin was deep blue, and Catherine won Travis County by 76 percent, but they lost McLennan, and no amount of champagne corks and fireworks in the street changed the fact that they were forced to make the victory speech in a state they lost. Still, Catherine wanted to come home again.  
  


There’s been a lot of progress this year: a few court victories Alex screeched at Henry about over FaceTime, registration drives for young voters, the Houston rally, shifting polls.

It’s 2020, and Texas is a battleground state for the first time in years.

The soles of his boots hit the pavement as he makes his way into the Waco Convention Center like he’s coming down from a much greater altitude than the backseat of a limo.

He remembers being nineteen in his first custom made suit in this exact building when they called 270, remembers screaming as Philip and Shaan engulfed him in a hug, followed by Bea and Catherine. Shaan had been sobbing his damned eyes out.

Things feel different, now.

“It’s early,” Martha is saying, hair straightened, wearing a knee-length bodycon dress made out of pastel blue lace, and some absolutely killer heels. “Like, super early for these exit polls, but I’m certain we have Illinois.”

“Cool, that was projected,” Henry says. “We’re on target so far.”

“Don’t get too comfy, hon.” She breathes, grabbing Philip’s hand as he comes up behind her. His suit matches her dress in color, and he’s not wearing a tie. A bold choice. “I don’t like how Pennsylvania looks.”  
  


“It’ll be fine,” Philip soothes. He looks like he could use one of Henry’s Diazepams just about now; he had his dosage raised, after the leak of the Los Osos Letters.

“ _Hey_ ,” Bea says, hair in two high pigtails, freshly streaked with the same shade of red as her sequined dress— long sleeves with a deep plunging neck, the skirt coming to her mid-thigh. “No talking until I get to shove pizza in my face hole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martha says, but she’s still staring down at her phone with her brows furrowed.

Alex 👑 🇬🇧   
Nov 3 2020, 6:37 PM  
  


**pilot says we’re having visibility  
problems? may have to reroute and  
land elsewhere**

  
**landing in Dallas? is that far?? i’ve  
no bloody clue about American   
geography**

  
**Zahra has informed me that it’s  
pretty damn far. landing soon. will try to  
take off again once the weather   
clears.**

**i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. how are  
things going for you, baby?**

_  
Things are rough.  
Please get here ASAP  
I think I’m losing it._

  
**Oliver Westbrook** ✔️ @BillsBillsBills  
Any GOPers still backing Richards after  
his actions toward a member of the First  
Family— and, now, this week’s rumors of  
sexual predation— are going to have to  
reckon with their Protestant God tomorrow   
morning.

7:32 PM • 3 Nov 2020

  
**538 politics** ✔️ @538politics  
Our projections had Michigan, Ohio,  
Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin all at a 70%  
or higher chance of going blue, but latest  
returns have them all too close to call. Yeah,  
we’re confused too.

8:04 PM • 3 Nov 2020

  
**The New York Times** ✔️ @nytimes  
#Election2020 latest: a bruising round  
of calls for Pres. Fox brings the  
electoral tally up to 178 for Sen. Richards.  
Fox lags behind at 113.

9:15 PM • 3 Nov 2020

There’s a small exhibit for VIPs only— campaign staff, friends and family, congresspeople. On the other side of the event center is the crowd of supporters with their signs, their _FOX 2020_ and _HISTORY, HUH?_ T-shirts, overflowing under the architectural canopies and into the surrounding hills. It’s supposed to be a party.

Henry’s been trying not to stress. He knows how presidential elections go. When he was a kid, this was his Super Bowl. He’d sit in front of the living room TV with Pip and color in each state with red and blue magic markers as the night went by, allowed to stay up with his big brother way past his bedtime for one blessed night at age eleven to watch Obama beat McCain. 

It was magic, then. Now, it’s personal.

And they're losing.

Shaan comes in through a side door, and he’s holding his phone in one hand. He’s been crying. Some things don’t change.

“Your mother wants to speak with you,” He says, pointing to Henry voice gruff.

Henry rises and reaches for the phone. “Yeah, Mama?”

“Henry,” She sounds reserved, quiet. She’s using one of the convention rooms as a makeshift office with her core team. “Baby, Mama needs you in here.”

“What’s going on?” He immediately asks, maintaining his composure.

“I need you write me a speech,” She tells him. “In case of concession.”

Henry finds that he’s suddenly vividly furious. “Absolutely fucking _not_ ,” He hisses, so immediately overwhelmed that it’s not even funny. “Do you hear me? You’re not gonna lose. You’re getting your second term, and we’re _all_ gonna do this. I’m never writing you a fucking _concession_ speech. You'd have to hold a gun to my head before I’d do that.”

Catherine lets out a huffy noise. “You think you could get up and say something for the crowd?”

“Now we’re talkin’, Ma.” He says. Something feels wrong, and he keeps talking. “I’m sorry for getting angry. I love you.”

She sighs, sharp and high. “I love you too, baby. So, so much.”

He turns to the rest of the family. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Speak from your heart, son.” Philip tells him. “You ain’t never gone wrong that way before.”

“Big smiles,” Martha tells him. “Confidence.”

“High energy,” Bea adds. “We’re in Texas, for crying out loud.”

He turns to Shaan. “They call Texas yet?”

“Nope,” He says, pouring Absolut into his thermos. “Too close.”  
  


“ _Still?_ ”

Shaan grins. “Still.”

The spotlight is blinding when he walks out, but he knows something, deep down in his heart. They still haven’t called Texas.

“ _Good evening Wa-co!_ ” He bellows into the microphone, like the coach that always hosts the pep rallies in high school. People are screaming and cheering already. Good, he’s playing the part right. “I’m Henry, your First Son.” The hometown crowd goes wild, and Henry grins, leaning into it. When he says what he says next, he intends to believe it.

“You know what’s crazy? Right now, Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer are on CNN saying Texas is too close to call. _Too close to call_. Y’all may not know this, but my boyfriend is a _massive_ history nerd. So I can tell you, on his behalf, the last time Texas was too close to call was in 1976. In ‘76, went went blue for Jimmy Carter, in the wake of Watergate. He squeezed out fifty-one percent of our vote, and we helped beat out Gerald Ford for the presidency.”

“Now I’m standing here, and thinkin’ about it... A hardworking, honest, Southern Democrat versus corruption, maliciousness, and hatred. And one big state full of honest folks, sick as _hell_ of bein’ lied to.”

The crowd fucking loses it, a cacophonous roar of cheers and applause and stomping boots. “Well, that sounds pretty familiar to me, is all. So, what d’ya think, y’all? _¿Se repetirá la historia?_ We gonna make history repeat itself tonight?”

The screams say it all, and Henry laughs, shouting over them, voice booming. “ _Let’s show ‘em what happens when you mess with Texas!”_

He lets the sound carry him off stage, lets it mend his battered heart and wrap it up. The second he steps backstage, there’s a hand on his back, the aching familiar gravity of someone else’s body reentering his space. A familiar, warm, comfortable scent in the air between.

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Alex muses, smiling. “Didn’t know you spoke Spanish.” He’s wearing a navy-blue suit, and a tie with little yellow roses.

“Limited conversational from high school,” He explains, captivated by his Alex, who’s here, in the flesh. “Your tie—“

“Yellow rose of Texas, thought it would bring good luck.” Alex tells him, laughing when Henry smashes their lips together. 

Henry kisses him like this is the most important kiss they’ll ever have in their life. Alex is kissing back, but in a much different way, languid, teasing, implying that they’re in a calming atmosphere and that they have all the time in the world.

“You’re late, Your Highness.” Henry teases.

Alex laughs. “I’m actually just in time for the upswing, it would seem.”

He’s talking about the latest round of calls, which apparently came in whilst Henry was onstage. In their VIP area, everyone’s out of their seat, watching Anderson Cooper and Wolf Blitzer parse the returns on the big screens. Virginia: Fox. Colorado: Fox. Michigan: Fox. Pennsylvania: Fox. It almost fully makes up the difference in votes, with only the West Coast to go.

Shaan and Zahra are in the corner together, huddled with Luna and Amy and Cash, and Henry’s head spins at the thought of how many nations could be destroyed by this gang. He grabs Alex’s hand and pulls him into it all.

The magic comes in a nervous trickle— Alex’s tie, hopeful lilts in voices stray bits of confetti in Martha’s hair— and then, all at once.

10:30 brings the big rush. Richards steals Iowa, yes, and sews up Utah and Montana. But the West Coast comes in with California’s fifty-five fucking electoral votes. Raf and Oscar are screaming and shouting; Alex looks extremely embarrassed.

By midnight, they’ve got the lead, and it finally feels like a party, even if they’re not out of the woods yet. Drinks are flowing, voices are loud, and the the crowd is electric. Gloria Estefan’s musical wailing feels right again, and across the room, Alex is with Bea, and he’s pulling her hair out of its pigtails and fashioning it into a fishtail braid. His two favorite people.

Anderson Cooper’s face looms on the screen overhead like a disgustingly handsome Hunger Games cannon, announcing they’re ready to call Florida. 

“C’mon, you backyard shooting range motherfuckers!” Shaan screams.

“Backyard shooting range?” Alex asks, looking just a bit mortified, like he doesn’t actually want to know.

“I’ll explain it to you later, hon.” Henry promises.  
  


The screen flashes red— _RICHARDS_ — and a collective groan goes through the room.

“What’s the math?” Bea shouts from the snack table; there’s three slices of cheesecake on one plate. 

“Richards needs Texas, Nevada, and Alaska to win,” Philip shouts back. “We only need Texas or a Nevada-Alaska combo.”

“So we _have_ to get Texas?”

“Not unless they call Nevada,” Martha tells everyone. “Never happens this early.”

The screen flashes red. _NEVADA: RICHARDS_.

Martha lets out a shriek of anger and anguish, mixed with an “ _are you fucking kidding me?_ ” that makes the whole room fall silent. She grabs a bottle of Grey Goose, stomps out of the room, and disappears down the hallway.

“Whoever wins Texas,” Henry says. “That’s who wins the presidency.” 

Bea adds a piece of pizza to her plate, plops down on the floor, takes her heels off, and starts stuffing her face, nearing the point of tears.

By 12:30, nobody can believe it’s down to this. 

Texas has never gone this long without being called. Ever. If it were any other state, Richards would have called to concede by now.

Luna is pacing, Oscar is sweating through his suit and trying to calm Raf down. Shaan is yelling at someone through voicemail, explaining that Zahra’s sister is having trouble getting a good daycare and agreed to let Shaan be an outlet for her stress. Catherine is stalking around like a pissed lioness.

A girl comes running in with Martha, a poll volunteer shirt, and a broad smile.

“Molly just—“ Martha wheezes. “She just— _fuck_ — tell them!”

Molly opens her blessed mouth and says. “They just counted another 10,000 ballots from Harris County.”

“Oh, _shit_!”

“ _Wait, look_ —“

It’s on the projection screen now. They're calling it. _Anderson Cooper, you sexy bastard._

Texas is gray for five more seconds, before flooding beautiful Lake LBJ blue.

Thirty-eight more votes for Fox, a grand total of 301. And the presidency.

“ _Four more years, bitches!”_ Catherine screams, louder than Henry’s ever heard her scream before.  
  


Philip lets out a whoop and hoists up a young male intern on his shoulders, and everyone is screaming and crying and cheering, and it’s a big, beautiful mess.

Alex’s eyes are wet as Henry grabs him by the face, kissing him so hard he forgets how to think. Confetti rains down on them when the nets are cut loose from the ceiling, and they stagger from person to person in a gigantic hug; Luna, Oscar, Pip, Bea, Martha. Shaan has dipped Martha into a kiss, and Leland Lovett is following in his daughter’s footsteps, drinking straight from a bottle of Grey Goose with his tie wrapped around his forehead.

Henry’s crying too, as he’s pushed back into Alex’s arms, embracing him.

They did it. Catherine Fox and a long-awaited blue Texas.

“I need to tell you something,” Alex says, breathless and still crying. “I bought a brownstone in Brooklyn.”

Henry gapes at him. “You _didn’t!_ ”

“I did.”

He sees the next ten years of his life in an ultra-bright flash; quiet nights inside, waking up next to each other, being close to one another whenever they want— and, he’s kissing Alex again.

“Victory speech in ten!” Shaan yells, finger plugged in his ear as he takes Richards’ concession call. “Places!”  
  


Henry pulls Alex on stage with them, lacing their hands and resting his head on his shoulder. Bea’s got her arm draped over Alex’s shoulders, Philip’s over Henry’s, Martha holding his hand and standing on the very end.

President Catherine Fox steps up to the podium.

_EXCERPT: PRESIDENT CATHERINE F. FOX’S VICTORY ADDRESS FROM WACO, TEXAS, NOVEMBER 3, 2020_

_Four years ago, in 2016, we stood at a precipice as a nation. There were those who would have seen us stumble backward into hatred and violence and vitriol and prejudice, who wanted to reignite old embers of division within our country’s very soul. You looked them square in the eye and said, “No. We won’t.”_

_You voted instead for a widowed, single mother and a family with Texas dirt under their shoes, who would lead you into four years of progress, of carrying on a legacy of hope and change. And tonight, you did it again. You chose me. And I humbly, humbly thank you._

_And my family— my family thanks you too. My family, made up of those who defied all odds, loved beyond all fears, of women determined to never back down from what’s good and right, a braid of histories that stands for the future of America. My family. Your First Family. We intend to do everything we can, for the next four years and the years beyond, to make you proud._

The second round of confetti is still falling when Henry grabs Alex by the hand and says, “Follow me.”

Everyone’s too busy celebrating or doing interviews to see them slipping out the back door. Secret service loads them into an inconspicuous black vehicle, and they’re off.

Waco feels different tonight, but hasn’t changed a bit since the last time he visited. Blooming flowers and washed out bricks and open pastures for miles. Home sweet home, but just that much sweeter, somehow. Good, quiet, country people. Henry’s people. His constant, tugging him back to earth when he gets too close to the sun.

Maybe it’s just that _he’s_ different.

It doesn’t take very long to reach the farmhouse at all; it’s big, and it’s old, but just as beautiful as he remembers. The woman they rented out their land to has been treating it right— her corn crops are doing beautifully. He can hear his hens clucking as he bounds up the cracked front steps with Alex by his side, unable to hide his smile.

There’s no fireworks out here, no loud noises. No music. No confetti, no music. Just the the gentle swaying of leaves in the wind, the occasional cluck of a chicken, snort of a horse, or bleat of a goat. It’s the home where he saw the picture of Alex in a magazine; this is where it all started.

Hey,” Henry says. Alex turns back to him, skin glowing with silver moonlight. “We won.”

Alex takes his hand, and squeezes it, smiling radiantly. “Yeah, baby. We won.”

Henry reaches down into the front of his dress shirt and finds the chain with his fingers, pulls it out carefully.  
  


The ring. 

The key.

Under winter clouds, victorious, so in love that it hurts, he unlocks the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @bi-disaster-fsotus


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